Trinity: Saints and Angels
by theroguesgambit
Summary: "They had been chosen to bring order into a world of chaos." post s.2, crossover with "The Boondock Saints". The survivors are just trying to make it through the long winter when they run into a half-mad Irishman with skills to spare. What is his connection to Daryl, and how does this all relate to the brother he believes to be long dead?
1. Prologue

**A/N:** Variations on this have been done before, but this story's a bit unique in that it's going to put a lot of focus on the hows and whys of Daryl's connection to the McManus brothers. It might not just be a random coincidence this time through! Also, this story was started about a year ago, at the beginning of season three, but characters and information gained throughout that season will be incorporated into the story, so even though this takes place between seasons two and three of _The Walking Dead_, spoilers through season three are included.  
**Summary:** Following the events of the season two finale, the survivors of Hershel's farm have spent months on the run, just trying to survive the long winter. When they encounter a half-delusional stranger with skills to spare, the group must decide whether it's worth the risk to keep him around. But what is the stranger's connection to Daryl, and how does this all relate to the brother the man believes himself to have lost?  
**Pairings: **More or less canon  
**Warnings:** Violence and profanity in keeping with the source material.

**Trinity  
**_The three shall spread their blackened wings and be the vengeful  
striking hammer of God. _– The Boondock Saints

**Prologue**

They had been chosen to bring order into a world of chaos. They hadn't realized just how demanding their calling would become.

Murphy let out a whoop of triumph as another demon fell, the handle of his bowie knife protruding from its skull. He flashed his brother a grin, which went totally unheeded, before stepping forward, bracing his foot against the creature's back and dragging the weapon out.

It was raining across the slick tile floor, blood tinging the puddles a pale pink.

"That's eight," he shouted over the sound of the spray. "How many a those fuckers we see outside?"

Connor, head bent and whispering into his cross, didn't respond right away. While he waited, Murphy took the opportunity to impale a shambling demon that had finally noticed the commotion and made its way over from the Bed and Bath section to try for a bite. Kissing the wooden cross, Connor rose from his knees, peering around the room at the fallen.

"Was seven, wasn't it?"

"If it was seven then why'd I get nine, genius?"

Connor shrugged faintly, tucking the cross back under his shirt.

"_We_," he corrected, "got nine. And I took the first five, so unless my math's a bit off, that'd mean I got one more than you, doesn't it, baby brother?"

Murphy shot Connor a look that suggested he would've cuffed him if they'd been standing in arm's reach of each other.

"Shut it, that's only since you made me track down the fucking sprinkler system." He leaned down, wiping his knife clean on the last demon's jeans absently, before rising. "You really think it's going to count, anyway? Blessing sprinkler water?"

Connor shrugged again faintly, eyes flicking across the bodies.

"Best we got these days, isn't it? Not these people's fault that demons made 'em rise up after death. Least we can do is try and purify them, send 'em on in peace." Fuck, Murphy hadn't been off on his count. They'd gotten a good enough look at the pack on the street before deciding to draw the fight inside, and there'd definitely only been seven. Which meant either another group of the things had come shambling up Main Street awfully quick, or this store hadn't been as empty as they'd hoped. It was a dark building and they'd stayed toward the front. Who knew how many more were hiding out in a back room or up a random aisle in the darkness?

Murphy, meanwhile, had made his way over to the register halfway up the aisle, and had started searching around for a key in the counter.

"Well, now that we're in a store we can restock a bit, aye? Though I've got to say, still feel strange about taking them. Theft from a public place… edge of the line a bit, isn't it?"

"Shopkeepers all long gone or dead." Connor had drawn out his gun, eyes flitting toward the darkened back of the store. It seemed to stretch back forever all of a sudden, shadows swallowing the space like a physical presence. It was a huge outlet; who knew how far back it stretched? It'd been a mistake to come in here.

"Murph, leave it this time alright? Let's just get out of here."

"What, you late for an appointment or something? Hold on, I got the key."

"Murph…"

"Look, you're right, I know. Their souls still deserve rest, and it's hardly stealing if money's not a matter to this world anymore." The sharp jangle of the register opening made Connor wince.

"The blessed water'll do with these. Let's go."

Finally, Murphy seemed to pick up on his tension, looking up with a frown.

"Fuck's wrong with you, Conn? We're not just to-"

And then he froze, eyes going huge, and Connor knew he'd guessed wrong. The darkness ahead hadn't been the thing to fear.

"Conn, _move!_" He dove forward without thinking, even as Murphy drew his gun and started firing off rapid shots toward the entrance behind him. Murphy wasn't a poor shot, and Connor knew even before looking that they were dealing with more than a lone threat.

He managed to hit the ground in something resembling a roll, and twisted back to his feet already firing. At some point, maybe hearing the sprinklers or the pair's own shouts, what looked like at least a dozen demons had found their way to the shop's entrance.

"Christ," Murphy wasn't smirking now, voice tight with concentration as Connor continued to back up to get in line with him. "Like a fucking tour bus unloaded here. Where'd they come from, anyway?"

"More worried about our new exit strategy." Connor risked a glance toward the back. Fucking stores, never thought to stick in a window. The back was completely shrouded, but there were more crowding in on the entrance every second and they didn't exactly have infinite ammo.

"Well, you're the master planner, brother. Plan."

"You only say that so that I can get blamed when you find yourself eaten." Connor's first gun clicked empty. Murphy laughed; it sounded thinner than usual.

"I'm just thinking about your scrawny hide. Don't go getting yourself bitten and making me shoot you." His next shot yielded a useless click, and he cursed. "We moving then or not?" Connor gritted his teeth.

"We're moving. Stay close, and listen for breathing."

And they fell backward into the darkness as the horde swept in.


	2. Chapter 1

PART I: VERITAS

**Chapter One**

_The wailing was what woke him, late in the cold night. Long, quavering moans that seemed to have risen from the despairing depths of Hell itself to haunt him. He held himself still, not daring to move, before another sough sent him tugging his sheet above his head like a ward against the terrors of the night._

_A pair of eyes, wide and bright with fear, greeted him in the shadowed sanctuary. Matching pale gazes held each other for a few seconds, gathering strength. And then the other boy swallowed, and whispered high and soft._

_ "You think it's a wight, Conn?"_

_ The voice seemed to break the nightmare spell, and warmth flowed back into his veins. Sniffing, Connor rolled to his back and scoffed his brother's childish question._

_ "Don't be stupid, stupid. It's Ma."_

_ The wails continued through the night-darkened house. Murphy set his jaw bravely, rolling to his back as well. For several seconds they listened in silence, before Murphy wavered, rolling back to face Connor again._

_ "…Do you think it's about Da?"_

_ Connor stayed, resolute, on his back. Beyond the thin press of the sheet, the wails had begun to dissolve into sobs – sharp, wrenching expulsions of heartache and loss. _

_ "It's always about Da."_

_ The sounds tore at something inside of him; the depth of the loss, the loneliness. Made his soul ache with a terror he couldn't quite understand. Without thinking, his left hand slid out across the bed sheet; his brother's hand was already waiting to clasp it._

_As the night wore on and the sobs bled to spent silence, the feel of each other's fingers acted as an unspoken promise. They would never need to fear the sting of that awful loneliness. They would never make those sounds. That was what having a brother meant._

_Never having to be alone._

.-

Time passed on. Restless days, and the nights grew colder. It had stopped being measured by the span between meals, the hours between sleep. He couldn't remember the last time he'd done either. Blood soaked the heavy cloth of his coat… or maybe it was water. It'd been raining, he remembered faintly. At some point.

The demons were swarming around him again; he couldn't remember a time when they hadn't been all around him. In the forests, the streets. The church. Like an endless nightmare he just couldn't shake.

He swung the crowbar tiredly at the one blocking his way. The skull was soft enough that the halfhearted blow was more than enough; it crumpled like Ma after pub on Paddy's Day. He snorted, wiped the spatter of blood off his cheek, and stored that one away for later. Murph would want to hear it, if only to tell him what a fucking idiot he was.

He would tell him… he _would. _Murph would laugh.

Connor McManus slammed full force into the shop's back exit, pressing against the metal sheet as much for balance as to get the thing open. It opened so easily that he almost found himself falling straight onto the linoleum, but caught himself on the handle, reversing his momentum and slamming the door shut again the second he was inside. His fingers fumbled as his eyes fought to adjust to the darkness, catching and twisting on the lock. Whatever was inside couldn't be as bad as the mass that had been following him up the street.

No time to catch his breath, he hefted the crowbar again, flicking on the salvaged flashlight strung to his wrist, and found himself face to face with-

"_Murph!_"

It was so unbelievable that he had to squeeze his eyes shut and blink them back open again warily. But there was his brother, standing five feet in front of him in the darkness, staring at him and looking as surprised as he felt. After all these weeks – days? months? – he had to admit he'd been losing faith that they'd find each other again. He should've known God would place them back together in his time of need.

"Christ, Murph." He grinned, hunger and exhaustion forgotten, moving forward to grab his brother's shoulders, make sure he wasn't just some kind of mirage born from his sleep-deprived brain. "Lurking in the shadows like a freak then, are you? Where the hell've y…" He trailed off, frowning, because his brother wasn't grinning back. Wasn't wrapping him in a hug or cuffing him upside the head and, stranger still, was letting him get a word in edgewise. Instead Connor was greeted with a blank look, a grim line of a jaw, and a decidedly sick feeling of _wrongness_ creeping through his hollowed-out belly.

Before he could speak again or even begin to work out the feeling, there was a squeal of metal behind him and Murph shoved him _hard _to the right. Connor had no chance to prepare for it and stumbled, the crowbar and flashlight scattering. His head impacted with the side of some shelf with a crack that made the world spin weirdly and get even darker for several seconds. When he could focus again he saw Murphy stabbing some demon in the side of the head with a long knife.

_There he goes, playing fucking Rambo…_

But here, again, Murphy fell short of expectation. No whoop of victory escaped his lips, no final, triumphant kick to the demon's gut as it collapsed on the floor in front of him. Instead he just continued forward, moving up the short hall toward the back exit Connor had just come in through.

Connor blinked, but the world didn't stop swimming. His stomach lurched as he tried to sit back upright.

How the fuck'd there been a demon behind him, anyway? He'd locked the door, hadn't he?

Murphy fell back into view, the knife out of sight. Instead he was gripping what looked like…

"What, are you Van Helsing now? Where'd you get that thing?"

Murphy sent him a sharp look and the sense of _wrongness_ hit him again. His head throbbed wildly. And when Murphy slung the crossbow back over his shoulder, made his way toward Connor and snarled, "move," it was all he could do to half roll out of the way and hold back the nausea while Murphy grabbed the edge of the shelf and started dragging it toward the short hall. Cans clattered to the floor with deafening crashes, and Connor pushed himself up on his elbows, wincing at each impact.

"The fuck are you…" Another demon came stumbling out of the hallway, and all thought of dizziness left him. Connor _acted_, diving forward and tackling the thing before Murph even noticed it was there behind him. He pinned it and it snarled up at him, its breath enough to make Connor almost black out all over again. He punched it once, twice in the side of the head, but despite the sickening crunch of the decaying jaw, it didn't react, its bony hands clawing at the folds of Connor's coat.

From this angle, Connor could see that the back door was open again. Either the lock had been broken, or he'd fumbled with something completely different in the darkness. Perfect. Murphy was still pushing the metal shelf, angling it up the short stretch of hall and shoving backward a pair of stumbling demons that didn't have the sense to step around.

The creature beneath him lurched upward, trying to bite at his fist when it swung in for another punch, but its jaw wobbled uselessly. Still, even being scraped by its teeth was probably a death sentence, so Connor rolled the sleeve of his heavy coat over his hand and gripped the fabric in his fist as he continued to pound at the side of the creature's skull. His crowbar would've been more effective but he couldn't even see it in the shadowed room, and anyway with the next hit he felt the softened skull start to give way.

Murphy had managed to use the shelf to shove the back exit shut, and was now bracing the other end against the handle to some door on the left side of the hall – a bathroom or a storage room or something; Connor was the wrong angle to see in. Anyone wanted in through the back door now they'd have to shove hard enough to snap off the handle.

The flood of blood and brains on Connor's sleeve as he ruptured the skull made him gag again, and he rolled off the demon's corpse. The room kept spinning even when he'd stopped. How hard had he _hit _his head, anyway?

Murphy was moving towards him, grabbing his shoulder, pulling him to sit upright and pushing his back against a stretch of wall.

"Not bad," Connor wheezed through steadying breaths. "Not that I couldn'ta-"

"How many of you are there?"

Connor blinked, focused in on Murphy's face. He still looked as hard and angry as before; his words slurring in a strange, deep-throated growl that made Connor wonder if his ears had gotten jolted along with his spinning vision. But the look in Murphy's eyes, cold and totally empty of recognition… something was definitely off about him.

"What?"

Growling wordlessly, Murphy knocked Connor against the wall again before standing and letting out a short, high whistle. All Connor could think was how much the sound hurt his already pounding head, until he heard a shuffle of movement from his right, toward the front of the store. At first he cursed his twin's carelessness, sure the piercing sound had alerted other demons to their presence, but then he caught sight of a group making its way cautiously toward them.

There were four in all: a brunette woman who seemed more than a little pregnant, led in by a kid wearing a sheriff's hat. A scared looking blonde girl not more than sixteen, clutching the arm of a white-haired man with a shotgun.

And Murphy was looking back from the approaching group and reaching over his shoulder, pulling out that crossbow again and aiming it straight at Connor's head.

.-

Daryl heard the others beginning to shuffle in behind him: the kid's careful steps, the woman's increasingly waddling gait. Heard the exact second when the girl noticed they weren't alone - her quiet gasp.

The man on the ground was staring up at Daryl's crossbow with sort of a puzzled fascination.

"Fucking hilarious." His voice had a strange, foreign lilt to it. Something European Daryl couldn't quite peg. After a few seconds the man seemed to dismiss the crossbow as a threat, lifting a hand to feel carefully across the right side of his head. "You just going to point that in my face all day, or you going to help me up?" He winced as he touched some injury hidden under his shaggy brown hair, glanced down at bloodied fingers and then, shrugging, held out the hand.

Daryl stared at it blankly, not sure how to react. After a few seconds, the man lowered his arm down to his knee.

"The fuck's wrong with you, eh?"

It was all strangely off-putting. No one had ever stared down his crossbow and dismissed it as a joke... or shrugged it off like a complete nonentity before. Despite himself, Daryl's eyes flicked down to the weapon. The bolt _was_ loaded, was trained on the man, and his finger was firmly set on the release. He returned his scowl to the frowning stranger.

"It look like I'm in the mood to help you up?"

"We don't have time for this,' Lori, behind him, started to mutter. "You have to get out there, find the others." Hershel shushed her, but she was right. This wasn't exactly the time for an interrogation.

They'd come into the small town hoping for a quiet place to raid supplies, maybe hunker down for a bit now that the nights were getting colder. Of course, nothing ever went easy and they'd hit a huge herd, already riled up, tearing in from the opposite direction as they'd approached a promising strip mall. It'd come down to Daryl to guide the non-fighters to a place they'd be safe while the rest tried to clean house or lead the Walkers off… and instead he'd led them straight to what looked like another raiding party.

Rick and the others had no idea to be on guard for the living as well as the dead.

Daryl stalked a step closer to the sprawled man, making sure his bolt was pointed straight at one eye. Less skull he had to hit, the better for his bolt. If it came to that.

"I don't wanna ask again; how many of you are there?"

Again, the man's reaction was completely off. He stared for another second, eyes scanning across Daryl's features in a way that made the hunter fight the urge to shift and look away. Then he snorted, winced, hand going back to his head.

"You're… really not though, are you? How many of _you _are there, Murph?"

It was starting to sound like a game, and Daryl was in no mood for playing. In one smooth movement he had dropped his hold on his bow - allowing it to swing down against his hip - drawn out his knife, and crouched in front of the stranger, holding the blade against his throat. Behind him, the girl stifled another gasp, and Daryl's jaw tightened; kid still hadn't quite adjusted to the way things were on the road.

The man's teeth clenched as well, though his eyes betrayed no fear at the touch of steel.

"Thought I said I didn't wanna ask again."

The stranger's dark eyes kept flicking back and forth across Daryl's face. Pausing a fraction too long at the left corner of his lip, sliding down to the side of his neck. Just his luck; he was stuck questioning a hostage with brain damage.

Growling, he grabbed at the side of the man's head, wrenching the damp hair around his wound. The man hissed.

"Aye, alright, I heard you."

"And?"

"And nothing. I'm here on me own."

Carl was moving forward, a swagger in his step like he was trying to seem tough.

"No one's 'on their own' anymore. You can't stay alive on your own."

The stranger's eyes slid from the kid back to Daryl, and then away again so quickly that Daryl felt like he was missing the punch line in some obvious joke.

"Aye, world's not a friendly place nowadays, is it kid?"

Carl shifted faintly. Lori murmured, "Come on back here, baby," but her tone didn't hold much hope, and sure enough, Carl pointedly ignored her. As if they had time in their lives these days for family drama.

The man glanced back toward Daryl, though his eyes stayed hovering somewhere around his collar.

"I've been looking for someone."

Daryl snorted. Looking for someone these days was like looking for a bolt in the back of a Walker in the middle of Atlanta. Merle's face lit in his mind like a flashbulb and slowly faded, leaving him angrier than ever.

"Well, now you've found someone."

The man's eyes slid slowly – hopefully? – upward. That wasn't exactly the reaction he'd been going for. He gripped the hair harder, causing the man to groan.

"This 'someone,' he around here?"

"No," the stranger's wincing eyes stayed fixed on Daryl. The hope had flared out in them and they seemed angry, accusing even, but there was no lie there. "I don't think he is." Then his attention started to slide away, going distant, and his head began to loll. Daryl released his tight grip on the man's hair, cursing. So something was actually wrong with the guy; he wasn't just a babbling idiot.

"Dad…" Beth was whispering, but the sound carried in the otherwise silent store. "This is taking too long; what if Maggie…"

The stranger was blinking quickly, trying to get himself to focus, but his voice slurred and his head slid back. "Oh, Christ. I've fucking lost it, haven't I?" He let out a short, watery laugh, slammed his head back against the wall and groaned again, before starting in on some folksy tune in a breathy lilt. "Oh the night that Paddy Murphy died is a night I'll never forget... Paddy Murphy… fucking died and then came back again…"

"Daryl," This was Hershel now, quietly reasonable above the man's off-key murmurs. "Let's just leave him be and move on. This man has nothing to do with us."

"You need to check on the others." Beth, voice shaking, trying hard to be brave. "We're fine here, just go."

"I ain't leaving you bunch alone with some outta his head stranger," Daryl snapped, not bothering to glance back. "I'd like to avoid Rick spitting me alive, much as we could all use the dinner."

"I can watch him." Carl, who else? Damn kid trying to play Sheriff like always. Trying to impress the girl. "We could tie him up with…" He paused for a few seconds; there was a rattle of shifting supplies and he finished triumphantly, "duct tape!"

It'd be easier to just kill the guy now. He'd said he was alone and Daryl believed him. There'd be no backup racing up with a mind for revenge. Damn lunatic was probably the reason there'd been a crowd of riled up Walkers racing through the streets in the first place.

But he'd looked at Daryl with those damn halfway hopeful eyes... and Daryl couldn't quite forget that he'd had his back, taking down that Walker while he'd been too distracted getting the door shut. Probably just to save his own skin, but... damn it… they didn't kill the living. Not just to make life a little easier, anyway. Not if there was another choice.

Lori stepped in closer, adding: "Carol's out there, too."

And that reminder hit him like a punch in the gut. It shouldn't have mattered, not more than anything else, anyway. But she could barely hold a gun. She'd been cut off from retreating with the rest when half a dozen geeks had come snarling up the side street and broken their ranks in half. Last he'd seen, T-Dog was pulling her away from the fight but…

His open palm hit the wall with a force to rattle shelving. The stranger flinched, rambling song going abruptly silent.

"_Fine_. Kid, get the tape and make sure it's tight, hear me?"

"Eh," The man blinked slow and heavy, grinned at him dizzily. His accent was so thick now that Daryl could barely pick out the words. "Less'all just grab a drink'n part ways friends, aye? Not a fan a bein' cuffed, s'ya should well know."

The words worked to fray Daryl's already spent nerves. Carl moved forward, tugging a strip of tape free as he went.

"What," Daryl snapped at the stranger. "Send you out as a happy meal for a street full of Walkers? Trust me, we're doing you a favor keeping you in here."

And that, of course, was when Beth started screaming.

Daryl whirled just as the stranger jerked himself upright, barely avoiding impaling himself on the knife that had just left his throat. She was pointing toward the back of the store, one hand over her mouth to stifle any more screams. Carl stepped in front of her, aiming his own gun into the darkness and squinting to see what had frightened her. Daryl swung his bow up again, directing the flashlight he'd attached to the barrel into the shadowed corner.

There were hands reaching out from behind the shelf he'd moved, from what'd looked like a supply room when Daryl had tugged the door open and used the knob to brace the shelf in place. It had looked quiet enough in there at a glance – a long, shadowed row of half-open boxes – but he hadn't had much chance to scope it out. Now it looked like some kind of a Walker nest must've been lurking in the back, out of sight. They were blocked off, trapped in the back room by the shelf, but even things that brainless would figure out to crawl through the space between shelves eventually. That or they'd shove hard enough that they'd just push the shelving away from the handle, and let the horde piled at the back exit through.

The stranger had slid to his knees, white fingers scraping against the wall for balance, and was peering down the hall as well.

"How many are they?"

More than Daryl'd like. There were three pairs of arms now, maybe four. Hell, how could a town this damn small have so many Walkers? No place was quiet anymore; no place was safe.

"_You_ shut up," he said aloud. Then, "Hershel." He inclined his head toward the shelves. The man stepped forward, shotgun raised, while Daryl kept steady aim for anything worse than arms coming out at them. Hershel dared to get in as close as the start of the short hall, his own flashlight carefully sweeping over the doorway and the blocked in Walkers. After a few seconds he let out a weary sigh, stepping back.

"There's a lot of them. Seems like maybe they're coming in through an open supply door around the back of that room."

Which meant that Daryl had blocked off the back entrance only let them in through this side one. This place wasn't safe any more than the street was.

"That shelf's not going to hold in place," That was the stranger. Irish, Daryl decided with a sudden burst of certainty; though what the hell an Irishman was doing down in the middle of Georgia during the apocalypse… "It was set to hold things pushing from the end, not from the side."

"Didn't I tell you to shut it?"

"He's right," Lori murmured, like Daryl didn't know that already. "We've got to go."

The shelf rattled, scraped an inch along the edge of the handle, and Daryl cursed.

"Ok, move back toward the front. Hershel, point. Carl, on your Mom and Beth, and _you_," he grabbed the Irishman's collar, pulling him upright. "You stay where I can see you and don't try anything. Maybe some of that leprechaun luck'll get us all out of this alive."


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Thank you so much to the two people who were kind enough to leave a few words in a review. I'm also glad thirteen people like my story enough to follow it, but I would love to hear any thoughts you have. I don't write looking for feedback, but that is a big motivation behind bothering to post so if I don't feel like anyone cares I probably won't feel the need to continue.

**Chapter Two**

The shelf scraped off the side door's handle and clattered against the far wall even as the six traveled like a trained unit toward the front of the store. Daryl, guiding the stranger with a firm, steady grip, had no choice but to release his arm and hope his own survival instincts kept him moving as he turned to aim his crossbow into the darkness behind them. He wasn't prepared for the hand that gripped his shoulder, the sudden panicked voice in his ear.

"Hey, don't fall behind now."

Daryl jerked his arm away and stared at the stranger for a long, surprised second. He was worried alright, pale eyes wide. What the hell?

"What d'you care? Keep moving."

The Walkers were tripping themselves up in the half-fallen shelving, slowing themselves down, and Daryl didn't have to waste a single bolt before Hershel got the front door open and they were pushing back out onto the street. As Daryl backed toward the exit, a quick glance showed the stranger hovering in the doorway as though refusing to let Daryl out of his sight. Opposite of what he'd expecting but then, what about this man so far hadn't been?

Daryl broke into daylight, pushing the man away and tugging the door shut behind him.

"The hell part of 'keep moving' don't you get, ya dumb clover?"

"Shut it," the other snapped, seeming as unperturbed as ever by Daryl's crossbow aiming toward his chest. "You know you left my crowbar in there, and my torch."

"Funny thing about prisoners," Daryl growled back, giving him another shove forward. "Generally ain't allowed to hold onto their weapons."

The street was strangely quiet, considering how crowded it'd been before. True to plan, it looked like the rest of the group had led all but a few stragglers off, and the ones that remained seemed to be drifting slowly in the opposite direction, most likely the way the others had gone. The main threat now was whatever mass ended up making it through the store for them.

Hershel glanced to Daryl, who inclined his head toward the right, back the way they'd come into town. They'd left their cars and his bike at the edge; if the others were planning on circling back and meeting them anywhere, it'd be there.

Lori was moving slower than the rest as they picked their way down the street, falling toward the back of the line. Carl, busy keeping pace with Beth at the middle, hardly spared her a glance. For a few seconds Daryl worried it was the baby – now over four months on – weighing her down, until she fell in step with him and then matched his stride, eyeing their prisoner warily.

"What're we doing with him, Daryl? Can't we just leave him here?"

It made a certain sense. They'd be out of the way and driving to freedom with any luck in a couple of minutes. He shouldn't be much in the way of a threat if they just left him there on the street and moved on. _They'd_ be completely safe.

But the man was struggling, stumbling every few paces like he was going to fall. His hand kept going up to brace the side of his head and then flinching away. And even as Daryl watched, the edge of his boot caught on a barely-there break in the pavement, and Daryl had to reach an arm forward to keep the man from ending up face-first on the concrete.

Lori watched with tightly pressed lips as the man straightened and Daryl released his grip. She waited until he'd moved ahead a bit again before continuing, glancing around the oddly quiet street as she went.

"We don't know anything about him. What if he's bit? What if that's why he seems so…"

A fever would explain the behavior, but Daryl hadn't felt any heat coming off the man when he'd held the knife to his throat.

"Nah, think it's just a knock in his head. He hit it before when I…" When Daryl had grabbed him and shoved him head-first into some metal shelving. And maybe that was the problem. Daryl was the reason this guy couldn't put one foot in front of the other, and as quiet as it seemed, it was only a matter of time before the herd pushed its way through or around the store and back onto this street. If Daryl left the man behind it'd be completely on him when the guy didn't make it to see sunset. And that seemed the most likely result. He'd actually been helpful back in the store, and leaving him behind would be a death sentence, simple as that.

"We leave him, he's Walker food."

Lori's gaze went to the ground, and he couldn't tell whether she was alright with that prospect. He'd never much been able to read the woman, even after all this time.

The snarling alerted him that they'd been sighted, and he whistled, gesturing the group back into tighter formation. Carl fell back and grabbed his mom's arm, tugging her back past the prisoner and toward the group's center. Then he lifted his gun and pointed it – with maybe a little too much flair, but his aim determined and accurate – along their right flank. Hershel, still at the head, kept his shotgun tilted to the front left corner, ready to protect both sides, while Daryl swiveled to guard their backs again, looking for the source of the sound.

The Walkers from the shop were still pressing against the closed door – rare bit of luck, it swung inward – but another several had apparently given up on the storage entrance and had made their way along the alley between stores instead. Not many yet, just three in view, but if Daryl tried picking them off with his gun there'd be more within seconds, and he was already criminally low on bolts.

Hell, it was like a city center around here. How many of them had the Irishman had on his tail?

"Carl, keep them moving toward the cars. You watch the back. Shoot only if you gotta."

He heard the kid's steps shift automatically in reply, while the Irishman snapped, "And what d'you think you're going t-"

Daryl slung the crossbow against his back, drawing out his knife and moving toward the shambling pack. Who knew if Rick and the others had looped back to the cars yet, or how long they'd have to wait for them if they hadn't? If any Walkers started following them now, picking up strays as they went, they'd more than likely end up with a full on herd by the time they had to face them at the cars.

The first one went down easy, his knife burying itself in what was once a middle-aged woman's forehead. What was left of her hair was cropped short and pale, and he tried not to let it remind him of Carol. No time to worry now, to think about how the rest of them might be doing. He wrenched the knife free and kicked out at the second Walker, whose lone arm had begun to latch on his from behind. Ribs crunched, not enough to stall it for long, but the third was already getting within reaching distance, stumbling forward with arms outstretched like some sick parody of a big welcome hug.

"Pfft, No thanks."

He batted an arm aside, but even as he weaved to the side and impaled the Walker's half-rotted skull, he caught sight of others coming up the alley. Five… no, six more. And they were picking up speed at the sight of him.

He pulled his crossbow forward, using the loaded bolt to take one out through the eye, then dropped the weapon to the concrete and moved forward, lighter on his feet without the extra weight. A swipe with his knife cut the tendons in one's neck. The head lolled back, still snarling, held on by nothing but a strip of skin at the nape, even as the body collapsed like a cut puppet. Down to four. He kicked out one's knee to get a little headway, then shoved the knife through another's mouth as it closed toward his shoulder for a bite. Twisting the handle for good measure, he wrenched it out and let the thing fall in front of him.

Not for the first time, his leather vest saved him as a hand scraped across his back, fingers doing their best to dig into the flesh of his ribs. He twisted around, swiping blindly, and the thing's rotted chest spilled open in a way that would've been a death sentence for anything living. The Walker snarled, unaffected, its hands continuing to claw for an unprotected piece of Daryl's flesh. He stumbled back a step and lifted his foot, kicking with as much force as he could manage into the middle of its bleeding chest. His knife cut through the next Walker's skull like it was warm butter – a rotted thing that must've died back in the first days of the infection, and then spent a few weeks soaking in a swamp by the looks of it – and then another was on him. It was in every way unlike the last: half a foot taller than Daryl, dark skin smooth and unrotten, and recent enough dead that the only real signs it was gone were the low growl in its throat and the milky haze over its eyes.

It knocked him to the ground before he could do anything more than get an elbow against its throat and tuck in his own chin to keep his head from hitting the concrete. His knife barely missed slitting his own throat, clutched in the hand that was braced against the Walker's neck. Its jaw, inches from his, worked open and shut, and rancid saliva dripped onto his cheek. He was holding its head back for now, but he couldn't do a damn thing about its hands.

An image of Dale spasming in the field, guts torn from him by bony fingers, made Daryl redouble his efforts to shove the thing off of him. It was too heavy to push up or even roll off. So far the hands were still clawing up and down the sides of his vest, the leather too thick for the still-fleshy fingers to rip through, but sooner or later it was gonna hit skin, and then he'd be a goner. Gritting his teeth, the hunter opened his right palm so that the blade fell free, flat metal impacting with his clavicle in a way that made him fight not to cough. He grabbed the blade with his left hand, ready to aim it at the Walker's skull, just as the other came into view from above. It loomed over him, chest still bleeding freely and its throat most likely slit from his earlier swipe, but still more than eager to take a bite out of the thin skin of Daryl's forehead.

He changed tacks, swinging his arm upward and impaling his blade in the newcomer's head. It went silent and crumpled, but as it went down the angle became too much for Daryl's arm, and he lost his grip on the blade's hilt as the Walker's face hit the tar above him.

His knife out of reach, his crossbow abandoned at the intersection, his right arm screaming as the thing on top of him pushed down tirelessly, chomping for his throat… Daryl's free hand tried to scramble for his gun, but it was holstered on his right hip and there was no space between his body and the Walker's to reach for it. The bolt he'd shot earlier seemed to taunt him, just in sight sticking out of the dead Walker's eye, maybe a foot too far away for him to hope to get hold of it.

So this was it, then. This was how he went down. Just Walker food in the middle of a small-town raid gone wrong. Dying for nothing, leaving the non-fighters on their own when he was supposed to be guarding them. And no matter how much he raged or pushed or _demanded_ that his time couldn't be up yet, there wasn't a damn thing left he could do to avoid his fate.

And then there was a quiet pop like a beer can opening, and the Walker went limp on top of him.

For a second he couldn't comprehend it – the head flopping forward lifelessly, blood beginning to drip down from the clean hole in its temple. Then a booted foot came into view, shoving the corpse's limp frame and rolling it off like nothing worse than a too-heavy blanket on a summer night. And Daryl was left staring up at the grinning Irishman, who tucked a long-barreled pistol back under his jacket before holding his hand out to help Daryl up.

"And that's exactly why you don't run off starting fights on your own, baby brother."

Daryl pushed himself up on his elbows slowly, any number of angry, baffled retorts rising up in his throat, until the man's smile widened dazedly, his eyes rolling back, and he crumpled to the ground amidst the corpses.

-TBC-


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Thank you to my reviewers! Every bit of feedback is wonderful and really makes a writer's day. As for this chapter, Connor's head is a bit of a mess but I hope his rambling isn't too confusing to keep up with. Italics tend to signal dreams, memories, or general delusions.

Also, I hope everyone enjoyed the season 4 premiere last night! As of now there will be no spoilers for the new season and I'm not planning on bringing any in, though elements from season 3 will be incorporated as the story goes on.

**Chapter Three**

"_Don't ever fall back like that, eejit!"_

"_Hey, calm down; just getting my knife. Don't be such a mother hen."_

"_Don't you get yourself killed over a fucking knife, man. Did you notice we've got a bit of a fan club on our tail?"_

"_Exactly why I want to hold onto this beauty."_

"_You and your stupid knives…"_

"…_Hey Conn, seriously. Don't worry about it. You think God's going t'let me get bit and leave you to fend for yourself? He knows better than that. You wouldn't last a fucking week, brother."_

.-

The sound of a voice coaxed Connor back from a dreamless slumber. Familiar but different: that voice he'd know anywhere… but now affected to a low, growling drawl. Like his brother was trying to play-act Clint Eastwood.

"-him for bites before I let him in the car. You think I'm an idiot?"

A second voice: just as low, just as drawling. Quick and direct with a hint of command to it.

"Scratches? Cuts? We don't stay alive taking risks, you _know_ that."

"And I _said_ he ain't got a fever. He's just bumped his head. Hell, ask the Doc."

There was a pause, during which the men presumably looked to the 'Doc' for validation. Connor, meanwhile, was starting to notice a strange itching across his face. A tightness on the cheeks and at the corners of his eyes, like Father Slumber'd backed up his dump truck and spilled fucking sleepy sand all over him… or like something wet and salty had been running over his cheeks while he slept.

He fought the urge to scratch at it, to move at all. Not just so he could feign sleep and keep listening, but because his head felt ready to split as it was. Any movement at all and it just might break up altogether.

He almost jumped out of his skin when a third voice sounded from less than a meter away, this one smooth, gracious and the embodiment of every southern plantation stereotype he'd ever seen in movies.

"_So far_," the voice started pointedly, the words going bounds toward placating the other men, Connor was sure, "he's shown no sign of infection. I'd venture to say that Daryl's right; the wound in his head's hardly serious, but it's certainly enough to cause a concussion. He also doesn't look as though he's been eating well, and all that tied in with acute exhaustion, well… I don't think any one of us could blame him for lacking focus."

"Sounded like he did more than just lose focus back there."

Murphy snorted and Connor wanted desperately to blink his eyes open, unstick the salt that was gluing them shut. His brother was here.

_No, that wasn't right…_

Yes. His brother was here. He heard him, he remembered… he'd _seen_ him.

But he was too tired to move. Everything hurting and his limbs like dead weights.

"That's _right_ he did more." Murphy was talking again, still sounding like he'd spent the last month acing his way through the Redneck Academy for Intimidating Accents. "He saved my hide too, twice. He didn't break from the rest and run back when he did, my insides would be taking a trip down a Walker's belly right now."

The second voice, the one whose attitude was just screaming "leader," spoke up again, calm and reasonable: "And I'm grateful for that, I am. Of course. But you know what it's like with outsiders_._ We don't know the first thing about him. Why would he go running back to help someone he didn't know? Someone who'd just had a crossbow at his back?"

There was another pause, and Connor felt sleep creeping in on him again. Keeping track of this conversation was too much for him right now. The words, the voice, none of it was adding up.

Then Murph murmured, "Reminded me of you, actually." His voice barely there, almost like he didn't want to be heard. "Back when we first met. You didn't know me, didn't know Merle. Had no reason to give a damn about us. But you went back for him anyway. What made me trust you in the first place."

Then there was a huff of air, a shuffle of movement, and when Murphy spoke again he sounded almost normal. Loud and blithe, like his last words hadn't even happened.

"Screw it; do whatever you want. I'm getting us some grub before the natives start chewing their own legs off." A quiet rustle as he stood, as he made his way past whatever Connor was lying on, and then: "He's awake, by the way. Just check his breathing."

And he left.

.-

Daryl stalked from the old fishing cabin where they'd set up temporary shop, leaving the prisoner's fate in Rick's hands and trying to convince himself he didn't give a damn, whatever their leader decided to do with him.

The truth was, Daryl couldn't decide _why_ he cared what happened to the man. Ever since the group had split from the farm months back, Daryl had been one of the strongest advocates of isolation – of keeping heads down to keep safe, of not being seen and definitely not trying to make friends. They didn't need new allies; they could handle themselves. Were developing systems of survival that had kept the ten of them alive for their longest casualty-free count since they'd first come together on the outskirts of Atlanta. Another person around just meant a potential weak link, another mouth to feed and, worse, someone whose motivations you didn't understand.

But with this guy it was different. The idea of casting him out, sick as he was (even though sickness made him even _more_ a threat to the group, really), and just leaving him to almost certain death, created something of a frustration inside Daryl that he couldn't explain. It couldn't just be guilt. The guy'd been starving, exhausted, delusional before Daryl'd ever run into him; Hershel'd said so. Whatever they left him to would've been the same fate he'd have faced before they met.

It wasn't _sympathy_. They were trying to survive, not running a charity. Daryl didn't like the idea of anyone dying, but if they weren't able to handle themselves how did that become his problem? He had enough trouble looking after the people he'd already got.

Those were the positions that'd kept him alive, kept them all alive, for the past four months. Whenever they'd seen other survivors – rare enough but it _had _happened – their tactics had always consisted of subtlety, avoidance, and (if they had no choice but to face them) a cold front with a quick exit strategy. Today Daryl'd had more than one chance to leave the guy and keep moving. So what had changed?

Maybe, like he'd told Rick, it was just because he'd seemed like a decent guy. Muddled, injured, sometimes seeming off in his own world even when he was staring straight at Daryl's face, sure, but he'd still risked his life to come back for Daryl. Had come back even while the rest of the group fled to safety. Had taken down a Walker Daryl hadn't even managed to keep track of and then shot the one that'd been seconds from ripping him open like a jelly-filled piñata. But was _gratitude_ really enough to risk the safety of the group when guilt and sympathy hadn't been?

Daryl doubted it. He didn't know if he had it in him anymore to risk letting a person's decency dictate his treatment of them. He was sure it was a quality Rick had lost. In the past months, survival had come down to a weighing of pros and cons – what benefits could this action bring the group? What potential threats? The others could bleed their hearts out all they wanted over things like what was right, what was fair, what the "good" thing to do was… but not Rick. Rick had one job in this world, and that was to keep the people in his group alive. And Daryl… Daryl was there to make sure he didn't carry the weight of that burden alone.

…So saving the stranger hadn't been an act of kindness. Hadn't been just a thank you for his help, hadn't been because he'd looked so damn pitiful lying unconscious on the ground beside all those bodies. No, Daryl figured it was probably something a little more selfish.

He would have died today.

They'd had close calls before, times when one of them or another had been just one good jaw's space away from an existence of milky-white eyes and a taste for raw flesh, but today it had gone further than that. Yeah, they'd all _almost_ died. That was just a part of what life was now. And Daryl accepted that his life was only worth so much as it managed to keep the others alive a bit longer. He would go down before any of the rest if he had anything to say about it, and he would go down fighting. So no, it wasn't that he'd almost died today_… guts bleeding across the grass blank white eyes and rising up to—_

It wasn't that he'd almost died. It was that today, for the first time in months, everything had gone wrong. The system had fallen apart.

Before now there'd never been any problems. They'd always had each others' backs. If one of them were in trouble, the others would show up to defend him, and that was how they all stayed alive. But today they'd gotten split, and split again. They'd been scattered like ants by a few drops of rain and they hadn't had enough fighters – not _real, _practiced fighters – to go around. Out of the ten of them, only half really had any sense of what they were doing with a gun, and it just wasn't enough anymore.

They needed more fighters, plain and simple. And the Irishman'd proven himself to be one. Had proven himself willing and able to help out. Maybe if Rick let him survive, they'd be a little safer for it.

…Or maybe he'd get them all killed before the week was out, no real way to tell. That's why Daryl'd never tried to lead.

.-

"_Beloved Annabelle, I am getting closer now. Every day, closer. I feel it in my bonns… no, _bones._ There are many opper-toon-ities to be had in this hungry New World, and one day soon they will carry me back home to you and our boys—"_

_A heavy sigh interrupted Connor's careful reading. He looked up, brow furrowed, from the yellowing paper to where his brother lay sprawled on his back across the living room floor._

"_What, really Conn? You going to waste all day reading that shite?"_

"_Language," Connor replied on instinct, smirking at the sound of his mother's words coming out of his own mouth. Murphy's eyes rolled toward the ceiling._

"_Really, Conn. What d'ya care what the creep wrote to Ma back when we were babies?"_

_Connor's good humor fled, the edge of the precious letter starting to crumple in his hand._

"_He's not a creep; he's our Da."_

"_And he _left._ We haven't gotten as much as a stupid letter in five years."_

"_And don't you want t'know why, Murph?"_

_The other boy shot to his feet, shoulders drawn up and scowling with a brittle rage that looked far fiercer than his seven years should allow. Connor suddenly feared for the pile of letters so carefully liberated from their Ma's bedroom drawer, and his arms darted out to protect them from his brother's angry feet as Murphy stomped closer._

"_I don't care, and you shouldn't either. If you knew what was good you'd rip these up right now, save Ma from having something to cry over."_

_.-_

Connor's eyes slitted open against the fading light and immediately wished they hadn't. The stinging brightness sent signals out to the pain and nausea centers of his brain so sharp that he thought he must've been shot. Again. He resisted the urge to gag (his days-empty stomach actually coming in useful for once) or squeeze his eyes back shut and hide again in the darkness.

He found the eyes of two strangers on him, one cold and discerning; the other wary but concerned. The concerned one – an older man with shaggy white hair hanging down the sides of his bearded face – seemed vaguely familiar.

Connor's lips parted, but before he could try breaking the ice with some clever quip the older man was shuffling forward.

"Not yet, just going to hurt your throat." He reached out somewhere just past Connor's line of vision, hand coming back into view clutching a water bottle, and twisted the cap open. Connor tilted his head to let the water in, and it was enough to bring the nausea surging back again. He gagged, turning to escape the flood, but the man caught his cheek firmly, grounding him. Stopped the room's spinning enough for the stomach acid to stop clawing its way up his throat. His coughs subsided after a few seconds, allowing the man to tip more water into his mouth. It burned his dry throat like hellfire, but the man was careful and patient, stopping the liquid every few seconds and dabbing Connor's chin with his sleeve's edge whenever the dizziness wrenched out another cough. It took several minutes for him to choke down what the man deemed to be enough; he felt half drowned, but when the man capped the bottle it was still two-thirds full.

The other man, perched on the edge of a battered wooden dresser, elbows on his knees and hands clasped, watched the process silently. Everything from his comfortably authoritative stance to his air of quiet contemplation screamed that he was the one calling the shots. If Connor had to impress anyone to get out of this, it was that man.

He nodded a quick thanks toward the older man. The 'Doc,' if any of his memories could be trusted… and that was asking a lot. He hadn't _really_ just been hearing Murphy amidst this group of grim, southern survivors, had he?

Then he turned to fix his gaze back on the man in charge, returning his assessing gaze with one of his own.

"Thank you for fixing me up. Plenty wouldn't have done as much."

The man shifted further forward on his elbows, light eyes narrowing to slits. He wasn't glaring, not quite. Just making sure Connor didn't mistake him as someone looking to make friends.

"If you've really been awake long you know that wasn't exactly my decision. One of our men seems to think you're a decent guy, worth offering a chance. Now, I'd like to agree with him, but a chance is a pretty big thing to offer these days. You have any reason to think he made the right call?"

The man was straightforward; he had that going for him. And Connor didn't have anything to say against the look in the man's eyes, which seemed to suggest a sort of rationality – a sanity – that'd been hard to come by since the Reckoning had begun.

"Your man…" He had a vague memory of being pushed forward with a group. Of Murphy falling back. Panic. No… he was mixing up memories, that's what. Getting lost inside his own head. But he _was_ pretty certain that… "That's the one I saved from having his faced gnawed off, was it?" In his memory it was Murphy's face. Refused to resolve itself into anything _but_ Murphy's face. But he shoved aside the image and kept going. "Not much more can be done to prove I'm 'not evil' than that, aye?"

He tried for a winning smile. The man, unaffected, leaned back again. His lips were a thin line, eyes set on mistrusting.

"You been on your own long?"

However long it had been, it'd been too long. Connor's eyes started to slide, the memories closing in. Whatever had happened to his skull back in town, it seemed to have knocked loose the part of him that could keep memories buried in the back of his head where they belonged. Blinking quickly acted as a short-term balm, and he cleared his throat to speak before the rotting hands scratching at his subconscious broke through to tear flesh.

"I'm not scouting for some group, if that's what you mean." His voice came out rougher than intended, but the narrow-eyed leader didn't flinch. "Coming in friendly to rob you in the night."

"No way of knowing that for sure."

Fair enough, but the demons were scratching inside Connor's eyes, making it hard to play nice.

"Think there'd be a better way to steal from you than starving myself and giving myself a concussion." He lifted an arm slightly, not suddenly, but the movement still made the stranger's hand dart to his hip. "Hey…" Keeping the palm up, non-threatening. "Just… not complaining, but if you thought me such a threat, why am I not trussed up like a stuffed chicken on Sunday?"

The other two exchanged glances. Then the Doc spoke up.

"I told him not to bother. Yet. And I would appreciate if you didn't try anything that'll make me look foolish." The old man had a manner of decency that Connor couldn't help respecting. Like the world could take what it wanted and spit it back in his face, and he'd still greet it with a polite word and a nod because… that's just how things were done. The scratching hands seemed fainter all of a sudden, less solid, less desperate. Connor managed a faint, sincere smile.

"Wouldn't dream of it, thank you."

But the leader didn't seem ready to be convinced.

"You seem pretty coherent for someone who was delusional and passing out not three hours ago."

Three hours… Connor's mind scrambled for some mental map to go with that timetable, but came up short. They could be anywhere, then. Could be minutes outside the town they'd met at or half a state away. Not that it mattered much to begin with; he'd had no concept of where he'd been before anyway. The leader's jaw set, and Connor realized he'd been drifting.

"Wonders of a few hours of uninterrupted knocked-into-unconsciousness…ness, aye? Trust me, I still feel sick as shite. So don't ask me to dance any time soon, alright friend?"

Doc drifted back toward him while Fearless Leader pursed his lips.

"How'd you end up alone?"

"_You and your fucking knife…"_

"_It's called being practical. Planning ahead, thought you'd approve."_

The hands were back. Stretching closer, tirelessly closer…

He blinked hard, eyes sliding back.

"What?"

A hand was pressing against his forehead, pushing the long-grown bangs back with a careful hand. In the distance, the leader's voice sounded again.

"How did you end up alone?"

There was a scream sounding, somewhere in the distance. Raw, wild wailing that made him shudder and tense simultaneously.

"Rick…" The Doc's hand smoothed his bangs back down, like he was a child. His voice made the world seem a little bit warmer, less distant. "Still no sign of fever. I think it's largely emotional, perhaps partly the head trauma."

"_Don't fall back."_

"_I'm covering you, eejit. Now get down that door before we get overrun."_

"…_your fucking knife…"_

"_Don't be jealous 'cause I'm the action star here, Conn."_

"_Right, right, Macho Murph, aye? Just need to get in some hand to hand fighting with a bunch of freaks that can kill you off a scratch or a stray strand of spit."_

"_You worry too much, Ma."_

"-like he's not even in there."

Connor blinked heavily. The leader – Rick, he wanted to hold onto that, that solid fact: Rick – was on his feet now, looking angry. Disgusted. The world felt distant…

The Doctor sighed.

"We should give him a chance to mend before placing judgment."

Rick ran a hand through his hair, quick and agitated.

"Fine. But I want him bound, and I want someone on him at all times until then, you hear me? We don't know who he is, what his story is. Even if he's not a violent person, we don't…"

It was hard to keep his eyes open against the pounding, the _onslaught, the stretching hands. Hands…_ His hand was being dragged upward. A sound of tearing made him flinch. Something sticky touching his skin, hands pressing against his face, his forehead.

"…_a scratch or a stray…"_ Hands reaching for him, grasping at the folds of his coat. Penned in. Pinned down. Grabbing his arm. Pulling it upward. _Jaw already working, rotten teeth preparing to tear into the tender flesh of his hand, to rip away the skin like fried chicken. Just like…_

"No…" The hands were wrenching at him; _dead, cold hands, clawing at his… _"_No! _ Let go! Let go of me, you _fucking bastards_!" He jerked one arm free, felt knuckles slam against a stretch of bony flesh. The other arm was caught in place. Tied… cuffed? Couldn't move_. His brother being dragged away by the Russians, that last look, steady and fearless._ "No… Murph!" Hands were back on his free arm. Colors were spinning above him as his body jerked, clawing hands and gritting teeth and hard eyes _milky white eyes…_

He needed to get out. To run. To find Murph_y'd fallen back. Fucking knife. Stupid, fucking knife… _"I'm going back, I'm going back… Murph!"

He was straining against the one force that seemed to be pinning him, the other arm tearing against the cuff _no, not a cuff, tough and sticky and just a little give… _How had the demons found him while he was cuffed to the toilet? Murph was gonna be shot. Murph, shouting and pulling an arm back, dripping red. _"Fucker bit my…_"

There was shouting around him, past his own miserable yells. A clash of voices that might've been the baying of hounds for all the sense they made.

"Let me go! Murph_!_" _Screaming, chained down, locked in a dark room. The gun sweeping to aim at _"Roc!"_ Bloody on the ground. Murphy lying there beside him, his expression confirming what Connor could already tell – that all was lost, the light in his eyes fading out. Nothing left but the hope for righteous vengeance._

And now he was choking. Spitting ineffectually against something dry, thick, cotton in his mouth. Trying to suffocate him, he couldn't breathe. He was going to die here.

**.-**

Daryl was still hovering along the side of the cabin, working the nicked edge of a bolt smooth against the side of a rock, when Carol approached. She met his eyes and smiled faintly, before leaning back against the too-shiny recycled-wood siding and breathing out a quiet sigh. Watched her breath float away from her and into the falling night. A few seconds of peaceable silence passed while he continued to even out the edge with careful swipes of steel-on-stone.

"So, not going hunting?"

There was more to her question. There always was, beneath the surface. His hand stopped scraping the rock. Weighed it in his fist.

"Heading out in a bit. Just wanted to…" Most people, he'd just give the nicked bolt excuse. But not with her. Something about Carol's patient, knowing manner always made him want to say things, to admit things even he was only half-sure of. Luckily, he usually didn't have to.

"You wanted to wait around, see what Rick decides."

And just because he could, because with her the bravado and the grim eyes might be a thin mask, but one he was comfortable wearing, he shrugged her knowing words off and went back to sharpening.

"I made my case. He helped me out, so I helped him. Not much else to say."

She was smiling; he could hear it in her tone when she responded. That soft, fond smile that made him want to shrink back in on himself, spend a week out hunting with only the squirrels' eyes to weigh on him.

"You vouched for him. That'll matter to Rick."

He shrugged again, and she went back to watching her breath. Most days he would've enjoyed the silent stretch that followed. Most days these quiet moments were the best bit of peace he had, but now…

"I don't know him, alright?"

He felt, rather than heard, her shift to look at him. But there was a strange tension running through him, a restlessness that made him want to pace, to hunt. His hands felt oddly unsteady on the stone, and he left off sharpening, dropping the rock into his pocket to finish with later. Last thing anyone needed was him brutalizing his bolt over some twitched-out nerves.

Why hadn't he heard anything yet?

Stupid question; Rick wouldn't risk making noise. Whatever he decided, he'd be quiet about it.

Not that it mattered. He'd left it to Rick. He didn't _know_ this guy.

"All I know, he shoulda been left to the Walkers."

She sighed faintly. He wished he'd kept silent. His restless fingers found the rumpled fletch and went to smoothing out the imperfections.

"If that's the case," she started softly, "we'll deal with it. But I don't see that happening. You have good instincts about people, Daryl. When you've got faith in a person, they're usually worth it." A slight break, another quiet exhale floated away into the darkness. "Even if maybe we don't feel that way ourselves."

The words hit him sideways, made the edge of the fletch crumple. He looked up, catching her gaze through the misty air, her cheeks tinged pink from the cold. That strange restlessness surged through him again.

And then he snorted. A second later, she started to laugh. He slid the bolt back onto the bow, shaking his head.

"Right… You should put that on a card."

"Make one of those self-help books." She was giggling through her words, leaning against a wall, and a smirk dragged itself across his unresisting lips.

"Hell, you'd make a mint off those these days."

"_Walking with Walkers: What to Do When Your Neighbors Decide to Eat You Alive_."

"You should write that down."

"I'll have a book tour."

"Become a Geek counselor."

"What _is_ their motivation?"

Laughing felt good. _Watching _her laugh. It released all that riled up tension that had been tugging at him like a drawn bowstring since he'd first set foot in town that afternoon. And she needed it at least as much as he did, her eyes squeezed shut and a hint of dampness gleaming around the edges. Pressed back against the side of the house for support, one hand lifted as though to cover the sound of her laughter… but not quite reaching her mouth. Comfortable enough, now, to show her smile.

The moment broke when the screaming started.

Terrified, _agonized_ wails from the inside of the house. Daryl was moving before Carol had managed to comprehend the sound, bow shouldered and halfway to the door. Lori was hovering uncertainly in the doorway, hands floating above her rounding belly as though to protect her unborn child from the sound. Daryl slipped by her and toward the back bedroom, just as Carl came tumbling out. He looked up.

"Guy just went crazy. Dad told me to go get—"

"_Murph!"_ Whatever the kid was going to say ended up being cut off by the Irishman's next wail. Rick was shouting "shut him up!" and then Daryl was in the doorway, bow lowering slowly as he took in the scene before him. The man's right arm was bound to the wide wooden bedpost with a strip of Carl's duct tape; the other pinned by Rick, whose lip was split, chin streaked with blood.

Eyes heavy, flitting wildly under half-shut lids… the man was obviously delusional and just as obviously scared shitless by whatever he was seeing. Shouting demands for freedom, screaming names of people likely long dead.

Rick's eyes caught Daryl's and he found himself lowering the bow to the ground in a quick motion, sliding it toward the nearest corner and moving to the far side of the bed. Glancing back toward Rick for guidance.

"Shut. Him. Up."

And there was the gun at Daryl's waist. A gunshot wouldn't be much worse than all this racket, and he shifted faintly, drawing in a breath and reaching down to—

"Here." Hershel was beside him suddenly, holding out a ragged strip of fabric he'd probably just torn from the bed sheet. Daryl grabbed it, folded it over once, and pressed it between the prisoner's lips.

His head started to jerk wildly the second it touched his skin, gasping and snarling like something feral while Daryl struggled to knot the fabric in place. But he did finally stop screaming. Went quiet enough that Daryl could think past sheer instinct and nerves.

"Hell…" Daryl secured the knot and leaned back, sparing a glance at the grim-looking vet. "You sure he ain't got no fever?"

The man shook his head, eyes scanning the prisoner warily.

"He's got none of the signs of being bit."

"Right." Daryl spotted the duct tape roll on the floor, ducked to grab it, and started unrolling it in sharp, jerking motions. "'Sides him wailing like a full-moon banshee and trying to-"

The suddenly silent room put him on alert, and he looked down to find that the prisoner had gone still. Not passed out, like Daryl'd expected, but staring straight up at him. It was that same, searching look he'd gotten back at the store – slow and wondering and decidedly lucid.

The expression touched something in Daryl that made him want to shove the prisoner, or get out of there fast. The man made a sound – a quiet, questioning sound that was nothing like the spits or hisses from before. A one-syllable utterance that might've been a question, its meaning swallowed by the makeshift gag. Daryl tore his gaze away and found Rick looking between them with equaling, unnerving intensity.

"Daryl, you know this guy?"

He still _felt_ those pale eyes on him. Looking like he was some long-lost wanderer returned home or something. He shook his head, distractedly.

"Must recognize me from town today."

"That's not the look of someone who recognizes you from town."

That irked him. Bad. What, Rick thought he was lying now? Over some goddamn _look_ from a guy who'd just been screaming like a fox with its leg in a trap?

"Well, that's pretty much the definition of delusional, ain't it?"

He leaned straight over the man to where Rick had his hand braced next to the far bedpost, and strung the tape around the prisoner's wrist in a couple of quick, jerking motions. And the man's eyes were on him, and Rick's eyes were on him, and hell if the Doc's eyes weren't on him too, so he straightened up, tossed the roll of tape toward Rick without quite meeting his gaze, and made his way back toward the door, stopping only to grab his bow from the corner.

"Gonna go set up a stronger patrol. All that screaming's gotta've gotten something's attention."

-TBC-


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

The night was spent in a restless patrol of the southern border of the cabin. T was taking the north, Glenn and Maggie sharing the west. The east side, bordered by a wide fishing lake, was given little more than an occasional glance until Beth thought to ask: "You think Walkers can just cross the bottom of a lake? I mean… they wouldn't need to breathe, being dead and all, right?" At which point the kids were set to watch that side from the relative safety of the wide living room windows.

The prisoner remained silent. When Rick came by to check on the situation outside, he told Daryl that the man had fallen into a more or less peaceful slumber shortly after he'd left the room. The words just riled Daryl further, delivered in some careful, sympathetic tone like Rick thought he'd care one way or the other.

He should've left Irish back in town. Make his day a hell of a lot easier.

Half a dozen Walkers fell during the night to bolt, hatchet, or knife. A few months ago, that would've been enough to send the group into a panic. Now, though, it was such a matter of course that there was no telling whether the prisoner's shouts'd had anything to do with it at all.

**.-**

It was past noon when Daryl returned to camp, a string of squirrels the lone spoils of his six-hour hunt. Glenn, pacing, gun drawn, around the perimeter's edge, visibly fought a grimace at the sight of his catch.

"Man… next time can't you shoot us some chickens? Or, like, a wild cow? I would _kill_ for a cow right now, Daryl." Daryl quirked a brow, unslinging the line and tossing it at the younger man. Glenn caught it, but awkwardly, the tiny bodies colliding with his chest and forcing him to fumble to keep them from hitting the dirt.

Daryl chuffed faintly, lowering his bow to rest against his knee and rolling his decidedly lighter shoulder, squinting up at sky. Barely past noon and the sun was already starting to fall.

"Yeah, saw some bull prints just over that last ridge. Looked fresh too. Hell, I'll pick 'em up tomorrow, track 'em down, give you a nice steak dinner."

Glenn's eyes lit so bright that Daryl almost felt bad.

"_Really_?"

…Almost. Not much excusing a person who thought there'd be cows wandering deep in the Georgia forests.

"Dude, that'd be perfect. I mean, not that squirrel stew and squirrel-kabobs aren't great and all but it's been forever since I've had… oh." Glenn paused, Daryl's skeptical expression finally registering in his overexcited brain. "Oh, man. That was not cool; did you _see_ how psyched I was there for a second?"

Daryl snorted.

"You want cows, you'd best convince Rick to work us back over toward farm country. Meantime, you can dress those squirrels while I get some shut-eye." He started past the kid into the house, but Glenn's wary glance downward made Daryl pause.

"Have Carol help you, then."

"No, it's not that. It's just…" Daryl felt an uncomfortable twist in his chest, and his eyes started to flit across the cabin and grounds for signs of a disturbance. If there'd been an attack while he was gone… No, if someone had been hurt the kid wouldn't have wasted time fantasizing about steak dinners.

"About the… uh… the prisoner you brought back. He woke up a few more times and… he's not getting any better. Pulling at the tape, shouting through the gag, and he…" Glenn trailed off, glanced up and back down again. "Rick says if he doesn't get lucid soon we're just gonna have to head out and leave him behind." Leave him behind for the Walkers, he meant. However Irish had managed so far, if he kept up in this state he wasn't going to make it much longer.

Daryl rolled his shoulders again, glancing back toward the quiet trees.

"Yeah?"

"Well, I thought since you brought him in, maybe you'd want to—"

The twist that had been wrenching Daryl's gut tightened. Snapped.

"Look, we ain't having another situation like with had with that damn kid back at the farm, got it? What Rick says goes; that's the end of it." When he looked back toward the cabin, he found Glenn looking too much like a kicked puppy for comfort.

"I just thought, since he helped you…"

"_I_ thought since he helped me he might be useful. Looks like I was wrong." Glenn grimaced, and Daryl scowled. "We ain't running a bed 'n breakfast here. We're surviving." And now it was the kid's turn to look indignant.

"I _know_ that. I just…" He seemed to see something in Daryl's face, then. Something that made any argument he'd been forming stutter to a halt. And even that, for some reason, rubbed Daryl wrong. He wasn't angry. He wasn't upset. It _didn't matter._

"Just… get Carol to help you clean them. Don't want you spilling guts all over the meat. I'm getting some shut-eye."

He made his way into the cabin and, not sparing a glance toward the back hall, stumbled toward the first free corner he saw, and slept.

.-

"_You saved me, love. Every day you save me. You know you're my angel, don't you?"_

_Her smiling face, as always, was accompanied by the smell of burning._

.-

His eyes drifted open slowly. Night had fallen again while Daryl slept, and the only light came from a single, dancing pinprick over on the dining room table. Carol was sitting there alongside Lori, the two women somehow seeing clear enough in the dim light to stitch up holes in the group's worn clothing with bits of salvaged thread. A few months back the sight would've made Daryl scowl and dive for his bag, making sure they hadn't been digging through his personal stuff for things to 'fix.' Now, he found himself making a note to give the pair his warm flannel shirt – a sleeve had torn at the shoulder during a scuffle a few days back, and the days kept getting colder.

The rest of the room was empty, and when he pushed himself up to sitting he caught their attention immediately. Carol flitted him a smile but didn't bother with ironic good mornings, instead diving into a concise update.

"Most everyone's outside by the fire. Glenn found a way to the roof and Rick's up there now with Carl, keeping watch. T's got it after them, then you're on third until dawn." Daryl nodded, pushing himself to his feet, and felt an odd flutter of warmth in his chest when he caught sight of what she was stitching – his warm blue-and-grey flannel. She caught his glance and looked back to her work, seeming quietly pleased with herself.

Rubbing his cricked neck – wood floors were never going to make for good beds, no matter how many nights you spent on them – he inclined his head up the hall.

"Who's on Irish?"

"Glenn's in there with Hershel. He's been sleeping, mostly, since before you got back, but we figured it best to keep a guard on him anyway in case we get a repeat of this morning."

That caught his interest. He dropped his arm, shoulders tensing again.

"This morning?"

"You didn't hear?" Lori set down the jeans she'd been mending, smoothing the rough fabric as if it would somehow soothe his nerves. "He almost took out T-Dog's eye. Somehow managed to get an arm free in the night."

"He'd worked a screw loose from the headboard with his fingers, cut them up pretty good doing it. Managed to use it to saw through the tape." Carol's nonchalant tone was clearly designed to try and take the bite from the words. It didn't work.

"What the hell's he still around for, then?"

Lori opened her mouth, then closed it, sending Carol a glance that seemed to say "you talk." Like they'd figured Daryl out. Planned out some kind of system to keep him from getting too upset. They'd have to work a hell of a lot harder.

The group above all, that's how things were. If T-Dog had ended up hurt because Daryl'd brought this guy in, because he'd gotten caught up in some old-fashioned concept of gratitude…

"T vouched for the guy," Carol said after a quiet moment. "Said he didn't want someone's death on his conscience over something like that – something any one of us would probably try if we woke up and found ourselves tied up in a strange place." She quirked a brow faintly, as if to add, _we both know you would've._

Not that something like that should matter. However understandable the prisoner's actions were, all that really counted was how much of a threat he was to them. How much he could or might hurt them.

"…Besides," she added faintly, after she'd let that one sink in a bit. "He said we owed the guy a few chances after he had your back in town." She sent him another small smile, holding his gaze. "We all agreed."

And it made him sick – that they'd be willing to take risks over something like that. That they'd be willing to put their lives in danger because they were glad _he_ was still alive. It felt wrong, heavy, like a cross he didn't know how to bear.

His eyes moved to the flannel shirt, and the warm feeling wasn't there any more.

"I didn't _ask_ for any favors."

And Lori flinched, shielding her belly with a hand again – that stupid habit of hers, like she could use her tiny palms to protect the unborn child against the dangers of Angry Voices. But Carol was unmoved, looking him over for a long, patient moment that had Daryl shifting, wanting to pace, to get in close to her and snarl something… _anything_ that might make her blink. He managed to hold his ground, nerves vibrating his whole frame, as she turned her attention back to the shirt and very pointedly slid another stitch.

"T-Dog's fine." Her tone was even and patient, but without the tiniest bit of give. Warm cotton over a bed of steel. "He caught the man's arm before it got anywhere near his face, and they tied him down again easy enough. We've decided to keep looking after him until Hershel deems him healthy enough to get by on his own, or until he does something to pose a _significant_ risk to the group. He's weak, half-starved and exhausted. Honestly, state he's in _I_ could probably handle him in a fight."

It was the wrong visual to offer – Carol trying to defend herself against the man who'd cut his way out of duct tape with a screw, who'd taken down two Walkers that would've eaten Daryl alive…

He was rolling his shoulders faintly, legs still itching to stalk, when Carol lifted her gaze again and met his.

"We're gonna have to feed him soon. If you want to make yourself useful, go outside and get him a bowl of stew. And get yourself one too, alright? You've barely eaten in two days."

Once, he might've scoffed at the apparent order. He would've gone in the opposite direction and refused to eat just to spite that knowing look in her eyes. But right now something about the calm authority managed to ground his fraying nerves – if he'd caused this mess at least he could do _something_ to keep it from getting more out of control. He leaned down, grabbed his jacket and vest and swung them over his shoulders.

"He tries something like that again, I shoot him."

"Fair enough."

He paused for another second, eyes flicking down the hall and then back to her. With a final, angry huff he made his way out the front door. Before it'd swung shut he caught the start of some murmur from Lori, her words too quiet to make out but her tone clearly impressed.

Women… thinking they could figure a person out, work him like a goddamn engine block.

…And problem was, they weren't totally wrong.

Daryl made his way toward the fire and the pot of steaming stew, his eyes subtly scanning over T-Dog's features for any hint of injury. But the man's dark skin shone clear and unbroken in the firelight. At least that hadn't been a lie. At least no one had gotten hurt yet from his bad call.

Before heading back inside, he ducked down and quietly arranged for Maggie and Beth to cover his shift on watch before dawn. Daryl wasn't leaving the prisoner's side again until he was dealt with, one way or another.

.-

The world had been swimming around Connor quietly for what felt like months. A swirl of confused faces: strangers, angry and suspicious, patient and calming. And Murphy… Murphy, seeming coldest and angriest of all. He wanted to apologize, to try and explain, to beg for forgiveness, but then that thought slipped and all he wanted was to be able to move, to reach out and pat a hand across his brother's face and make sure he was…

It wasn't real. Murphy was gone. Connor'd been alone for too long – running, sleeping, running fighting running always alone. Their cause had been lost. God had forsaken this world, had abandoned his servants, and now Connor was tied down somewhere and left for the Italia… the Russ… the _demons_ to devour. Murphy was screaming next to him, on the floor and out of sight. Screaming and raging over Rocco's cooling corpse. Screaming _"fucker bit my…"_ Screaming… but the room was silent.

A hand touched his cheek. Cool, but not painfully so. Careful and gentle as it fell across his temple and forehead, and the silence rang shrilly. He tried to stretch his jaw, make his ears pop, but it was impossible to set the angle right with the cloth pressed tight between numb lips.

Then, blessedly, the cloth was removed.

"Hey, careful. Don't let him bite your fingers."

…_fucker bit my finger…_

Murph?

"He's not a Walker, Daryl." Another voice. Male, younger. Faintly amused.

"Don't have to be dead to bite down to the bone if he's feeling desperate. You wanna lose your trigger finger?"

"Eugh, thanks for that visual."

"Keep it in mind." It wasn't Murphy – the tone was all wrong, too gruff, too serious, not to mention the accent. Or… Connor had just managed to convince himself so anyway, until he forced his groggy eyes open and saw his brother perched on a dresser against the far wall, elbows on his knees and a bowl in his hand.

"Murph?" The word escaped as a pained croak, and his brother's eyes narrowed faintly. There was no hint of a joke in them, no 'just go with this, Conn, I'll break you out in a minute.' Just pure, blank, honest confusion. He blinked his eyes shut again, tried to reset his muddled brain before opening them. It was still Murphy watching him when he did, and he felt the need to scream rising up.

Had he well and truly lost it? Had he died and been lowered down into some ugly pit of hell, where his brother would spend eternity watching him from behind blank eyes? Would he just sit there, uncaring, while Connor lay tied up and inflicted with who knew what kind of unimaginable…

"It's alright, son." This was a new voice. Or… not new. A voice he half-remembered; patient, calming, and distantly familiar. He tore his gaze from Murphy to find its source: an older man sitting to his right, holding a bowl just like the one Murphy had.

The 'Doc.'

"You've been sick for a little while, now. No bites; don't worry about that. Just good, old fashioned overwork, hunger, and chills by the look of you. People tend to forget, times like these, the importance of little things like a good night's rest."

Murphy scoffed faintly from the dresser, taking a bite of whatever was in his bowl. And the steam wafted up and Connor suddenly noticed the _smell_ and Jesus Christ if it wasn't the most delicious scent he'd ever encountered. His stomach writhed with that faint, scraping nausea that comes from being too long empty as the older man stirred a spoon into his own bowl and added belatedly.

"Not to mention a good day's meal. Glenn, how about propping his pillows up a bit."

Movement on the other side of him caught his attention for the first time. A young man, Asian, probably not much over twenty, was leaning in to adjust Connor's shoulders. Connor's arms strained at the angle, and Glenn paused, frowning.

"Should we just let him… uh… feed himself?"

"Hell no." Murphy's own plate clinked down onto the dresser and a gun appeared in his hand. Not aiming, not even threatening to, really. Just jarringly, pointedly _there_ in case it was needed.

"But pushing his head up with his arms back like that's gonna…"

"He's got a bed, warm food, people taking a hell of a lot better care of him than he'd get anywhere else these days. He can take a little stiff shoulder and be grateful for it, got it?"

The kid – Glenn – sighed and nodded. Grimaced faintly as he pushed up Connor's shoulders, straining the arms that were restrained to… what… bedposts? The world wobbled with the movement, but he grit his teeth and bore it, because propping him up must mean they were serious about giving him food… Right?

They were. The soup was thin and watery, the meat gamy, and lacking in pretty much anything that could be considered a starch or vegetable – unless the handful of chives thrown in for flavoring counted. And it was absolutely delicious.

The Doc fed him achingly small and careful spoonfuls while Glenn helped brace the back of his neck when the strain of holding his head up became too much to handle. Murphy continued to watch him through narrowed eyes, unmoving, and if not for the fact that the others had responded to him earlier, Connor might've have decided he was an angel or an angry ghost standing watch.

He felt steadier after the meal – he couldn't place the last time he'd had anything more than water in his belly – and he leaned back and shut his eyes against the swirling shadows of the ceiling.

"Thank you." His voice less of a rasp than before, the sound hurt less coming out. "Looking after my wounds, giving me food… that's more kindness than most would offer even before there was so little to spare."

It was the Doc, unsurprisingly, who responded, his voice as patient and soothing as ever. Connor wondered vaguely if it was his natural tone or something he'd picked up to deal with skittish patients.

"Just because the world's changed, doesn't mean common decency has to. Besides, you did us a good turn back in town."

Town. _Murph._ Running back on his own to face the coming horde, the hothead. Being pinned down. _"Fucker bit my…"_

His eyes flew open, arms jerked involuntarily against the tape.

"He's not… he wasn't…" His eyes settled back on Murphy, whose gun had come up and was aiming at his head with even-eyed precision. Connor barely noticed, busy scanning him for paleness, for fever, for signs of recent blood loss. "Not bit, are you? Or scratched, or…"

Murphy eyed him past the barrel of the revolver, gaze dark and caustic.

"If I'd been bit, you think I'd be here waiting to turn my group into an all-you-can-eat buffet?"

He looked fine – cold, angry, _wrong_ but fine – but Connor's heart was racing and the room was spinning again and he felt his breath starting to come out in quick, dizzying gasps that he couldn't fight and did nothing to curb the panic that he just couldn't place…

"_Your stupid, fucking knife…"_

"_Fucker bit…"_

"Your finger. Your _fingers._ Let me see your fingers."

"My…" Murphy's own eyes flitted toward the handle of his gun, then back up again incredulously. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

"Daryl, will you please lower that? There's really no need…"

"Your _fingers!_" Connor was desperate, straining forward to get a better look at the other man's hands. Not sure exactly what he was looking for, what he was expecting to find… or not find there. He just needed to satisfy the dark itching in his brain insisting that everything was wrong, that everything might just be fixed if he got a look at his brother's fingers.

Glenn's hands were on his arm; too light to hold him still, as though trying to pin down his panic more than any physical escape attempt.

"Dude, just show him your hands, ok?"

Scowling, shooting the younger man a look that could freeze a bullet mid-flight, Murphy slid to his feet, set the gun back on the dresser, and held up both hands, fingers splayed, turning them slowly back and forth. Like he was six again, proving to Ma that he'd washed up before supper.

"Fine. Hands, fingers. Alright?"

It _was_ alright. No blood, no major scars. No teeth marks ringing the calloused flesh. No… His eyes caught on the right hand, unable to process at first what he was seeing… or _not_ seeing. He stopped straining against the bedposts and simply sat there, half-leaning upward, arms taut and lips parted with the promise of a thought he couldn't accept, couldn't start to express.

His right hand was _wrong._

Somewhere, just outside his range of focus, Murphy seemed to scowl and follow his gaze down to his own fingers.

"The hell? You got a fetish or something?"

"Where is it?" His own voice was barely a whisper, his unblinking eyes following the shifting hands. The index finger. His mind was working with painful slowness, working at a snail's pace to reveal what instinct had already realized… what just didn't make any kind of sense. _None of this made any sense._

His hand. His finger. His tattoo.

"Where _is _it?"

Not there. The same face same hands same fingers… but the tattoo etched into his flesh, a reflection of Connor's own, a sign of their calling… just washed away like a penned on reminder that wasn't needed anymore.

There'd been other pieces that hadn't fit before now – the accent, the sun-lightened hair, the blank look in his eyes when their gazes met – fuck, even Mother Mary missing from his neck Connor had been able to look past in his exhaustion, delirium. But this. This…

"I think maybe you should go," the Doc was murmuring in the distance, somewhere past the ringing shock in Connor's ears. "Clearly your being here is upsetting him."

"Like hell. He's getting crazier by the minute. I ain't leaving you in here without a guard on him."

From his left, from the younger man, a huff.

"I've got a gun, Daryl."

_Daryl._ He'd heard it before. Several times before. But the name had slipped over the edge of his consciousness, water over rock. He hadn't let it sink in. But now the rock was breaking up, the cracks were getting too deep; he couldn't keep it out any longer. Daryl… _Daryl_. Not Murphy.

"And you haven't reached for it even once."

"'Cause he's _tied down._ Stop being so twitchy."

"Tied down, like he was this morning with T?" The man – _not Murphy –_ shot Connor a scowl that he was sure was supposed to mean something, but Connor couldn't focus on the words. The Doc's suggestion was still prickling over him, static electricity, his hair standing up. "Thinking like that, right there, that's what gets people killed."

"Don't leave."

The rising argument stopped. Eyes slid back to Connor.

"I mean it, honestly. Daryl… Daryl, right?" It felt stupid to say, made him want to smirk. He half expected Murphy to burst out laughing the second he said the name, start dancing around and teasing him for falling for an elaborate trick. Instead, the man's brow twitched upward in a faint acknowledgement, the expression so foreign… but it _was_ Murphy's face.

For now, anyway. If he left, if Connor's mind was given time to clear and focus, who knew what he'd look like when he came back? The illusion might shatter. And however strange, impossible… painful it was to see that scowling mistrust on his brother's face, the alternative…

Murphy had been gone for… they'd been apart for… he'd been… his brain stuttered.

Losing him now, even this lie of him, was something Connor just wasn't ready for. He needed Daryl to stay.

"Look, I'm not upset. You're watching out for your own. I respect that." The jaw lost a touch of its tightness, the eyes stayed grim. And Christ if they weren't Murphy's eyes beyond that untrusting steel curtain. Murphy's eyes, like Connor's own eyes. Everyone'd always told them their eyes were identical, even if the rest of them wasn't.

"Sorry about the whole…" He tried to wave his hands about for effect, forgetting they were bound. The result was an odd, useless twitch of his fingers against the wide wooden bedposts. "Haven't been quite myself. Memories jumping about in my head… people seeming…" He cut himself off. No need to share his delusion with his delusion. Instead, he went with: "Timeline's all a bit fuzzy."

Another twitch in the narrowed gaze. Something like understanding under all the mistrust. From his left again, a soft question:

"Someone you know got bit?"

"…_my finger…" Blood dripping down, a look of dawning misery in those eyes, like his eyes. And the horde was sweeping in._

He shuddered, and the image fled again.

"It's alright," the Doc was saying. "Let's start somewhere simple. I'm Hershel, and you know Daryl and Glenn. What's your name?"

He tried to swim past the screaming memories, to latch onto the words, the Doc's voice. Ground himself in the moment. At least he could more or less tell, now, what "the moment" was. He recognized the rules, now. Could separate delusion from reality. …Or he thought so, anyway, until Daryl leaned down, met his eyes, and pointedly said:

"Murphy."

.-

TBC

.-

**A/N: **Thanks as always to everyone who took the time to review last chapter! This one had a lot of talking and thinking, and not much action, I know, but things will be picking up next chapter.


	6. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Happy Halloween, all! Thanks so much to my reviewers, without whom I wouldn't be posting. A short warning about the bit of Latin in this chapter – I'm semi-competent in several languages, but Latin isn't one of them. The phrases here are the result of going to several online translators and yahoo answers and trying to find the best fit, so apologies if it's a little off. Translations at the bottom.

**Chapter Five**

Their prisoner was a confused mix of panic, rage, and honest gratitude. He was unstable… and unstable meant dangerous. However decent a guy he might be in his more sane moments, if he lost his grip at the wrong second it could be any one of them that paid for it.

Rick got that; Daryl'd seen it when he'd first brought the Irishman in, heard it in his apologetic tone when he'd wrongly decided that Daryl cared one way or the other what happened to him. But some of the others… they didn't seem to understand. They thought a polite smile and manners… hell, even saving Daryl's life, actually _meant_ something. They didn't get that a stranger was only worth as much to them as his weakest moment.

And so if Daryl was going to decide whether or not the man was dangerous, whether he could be trusted to stay with the group for another night, another hour even, he had to see him at his weakest. He had to see what made the man tick, what made him fall apart, what was causing his eyes to slide and his voice to rise, what was making him smile at a person one minute and strike him the next.

And so, while the other two were getting set to trade recipes and how do you do's with the stranger, Daryl picked up his gun, caught the other man's gaze, and said pointedly: "Murphy."

The reaction was immediate, the color on the man's face washing to white and his eyes fluttering strangely back toward Daryl's hand.

"Who…" And squinting across his face, "You can't…"

"That's who you lost, ain't it? 'Murph'?"

The man's reaction was hard to gauge, tied down as he was. He wasn't straining against the bonds, wasn't raging or screaming nonsense or any easy, obvious type of crazy. Then again, the man had proven himself to be more dangerous than that. Digging out that screw, sawing himself free… that was a kind of focused, patient crazy that was more dangerous than any kind of enraged ranting. But if anything was ever going to set him off and show what he was capable of, it'd be digging around where it hurt.

Hershel realized that too, and Daryl didn't have to slide his gaze from the prisoner to sense the disapproval radiating off him.

"You mentioned the name on occasion," the old man put in, gently moving a hand to pat the prisoner's bound shoulder, "while you were half-conscious earlier."

Daryl fought a scowl. They needed to push the man, see how easy he'd break and become a threat. Not coddle and pet him like a lost puppy they'd dragged home, begging for supper.

Apparently Glenn wasn't catching on either, because he shot Daryl a frustrated look before murmuring, "We've all lost people. You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

Whether the stranger heard or not was hard to guess. His gaze seemed stuck on some kind of a loop, running over Daryl's face to his gun hand and back again. Visibly fighting some reaction, some irrational impulse. On the verge of snapping again?

Daryl moved forward, coming to crouch by the foot of the bed, his eyes narrowed and fixed on the prisoner's own.

"What happened to Murphy? 'Cause you know the Chinaman's right; we all lost people. Been to hell and back since the world started ending. But when people wake up screaming someone's name like you did, it's about more than just missing 'em. It's about that deep, dark corner of your brain feeling guilty as hell."

The pale gaze was still locked on his face, but the eyes had gone somehow distant. Like he was looking at Daryl but seeing something else entirely. His shoulders were tensed to the point of shaking.

"Daryl, _stop._ This isn't doing anyone any good." Daryl didn't spare Hershel a glance. This was what needed doing. If they were going to keep this man around for however long it took the Doc to declare him fit for traveling again, they needed to know what they were dealing with. What his breaking points were.

"Did he get bit?" The man's eyes shuttered. A shoulder jerked. A tell… but of what exactly? "You shoot him? Stab him? Leave him to the Walkers like bait to save your own—"

"_Jesu_, dimitte mihi…"

The prisoner's eyes squeezed shut. Daryl squinted, eyes going from Hershel – who was glaring at him with as much venom as he could muster – to Glenn, who was probably still sore about the "Chinaman" comment. The strange little part of Daryl that'd actually started to care about things like that had regretted it as it slipped out, but "Korea-man" just didn't roll off the tongue though, did it? And speaking of all kinds of foreign nonsense…

"What's he saying?"

"Ego fugi… ego fugi… dereliqui…"

The _Korea-man_ was glaring less, so Daryl quirked a brow his way.

"What… s'that Irish?"

"Dude, you _broke_ him." Glenn reached out, lightly and carefully patting the Irishman's shoulder. "Hey, look, it's ok. That's just Daryl being Daryl. He seems like a jerk, but he means well."

Daryl didn't bother hiding his snort in response.

"We gonna coddle him, wait around 'til he MacGyvers his way out of that tape again, or we gonna get some information?"

"He's speaking Latin." That caught Daryl's attention. And, apparently, the prisoner's too because his nonsense muttering trailed off, though his eyes stayed squeezed shut.

'You speak Latin, Doc?" Hershel's protective glare had faded to a faint, concerned frown.

"Just as much as I've learned from my prayers. Not enough to have a conversation, but enough to recognize the language."

Well, that told them something, at least. Nothing particularly useful, just that the guy'd either been a professor or a priest back in the days before. And neither really meant much of anything now that the world had gone to hell.

Slowly, the stranger's eyes flickered open, for the first time flitting past Daryl with barely a glance, instead looking toward Hershel with a kind of newfound respect and understanding.

"Connor." And his voice was soft and calm, holding none of the panic from his multilingual ranting just a few seconds before. "My name."

And Hershel responded with a smile that set Daryl's nerves even further on edge.

"Well, pleased to meet you, Connor."

Trust the guy who'd kept Walkers as pets in his barn to completely miss the point of an interrogation. Daryl straightened back up, huffing a sigh and starting to turn back toward his seat on the dresser, when the prisoner spoke up again.

"My brother." His eyes hadn't left Hershel, but Daryl felt the pull of attention turning back toward himself. He paused, brows rising faintly. "Murphy… that's my brother."

Hershel nodded patiently, not pressing him, but the man's eyes started to cloud again anyway, started to slide toward Daryl as though panic and his face went together in the stranger's mind. They determinedly stopped, though, holding somewhere just to the side of his head. "We became separated a while back… days… maybe weeks. My last clear thought before running is a horde sweeping in around us, between us and… I tried to circle around, get to where he'd been penned in but… I was too slow. Too late, and there was no sign... The place was empty save for blood and a few lingering dead."

Daryl's lip curled, and now he did turn away, pacing a few steps from the bed before looking back. The motion helped release some of the twisting tension that had started telling him he shouldn't have pressed for this, didn't need to hear it.

They'd all lost people. Been a few minutes too late, too slow. Had clawed their way through hell looking for someone they loved, just to end up with a puddle of congealing blood and too many questions that wouldn't ever get answered.

Connor's eyes had moved back to Daryl, following the agitated movement, and the pained look on his face made Daryl want to pace again. To hunt. To shoot something dead through the eye and hear that satisfying _thunk_ as it fell.

"Can't say what happened to him. Whether he was… swallowed whole or was bitten and stumbled off to die alone and rise again, his soul never finding rest. Or if he escaped and is alive out there somewhere, just as sick and confused as I've been."

Daryl's eyes moved to the window. The shadows out there didn't offer much in the way of distraction – indistinct trees and an uncomfortable stillness.

Screw guard duty. He did better outdoors, on watch.

"If he's awake 'n talking, might as well have Rick listen in. I'll get him, finish his shift."

There was a sharp sound from behind him, a squeal of springs and wrenching wood, and Daryl spun to find the prisoner straining, eyes panicked and sharply focused. The look passed quick as it came, like an instinct he just couldn't check.

Huh. All the way through that talk about his dead brother and he'd held it together, but Daryl offering to leave and get Rick made the guy flip like an eight-wheeler going seventy-five on a curve.

No telling what'd set him off.

Daryl quirked a brow toward Glenn, who glanced away, grimacing. Conceding his point. If Irish caught the look, he didn't let on, his expression slipping between calm and quietly desperate.

"Wait, just… I'm talking, alright? I'll talk to you and to Rick and whoever else you'd like to invite in. No need to go running off though, aye? I'll talk, just…you… stay."

Daryl's eyes slid to Hershel, who offered a less than helpful "well, why not" of a shrug. But Daryl had an excuse on hand:

"Someone's gotta cover shift."

"I'll go." And Glenn was standing up, like it'd all been decided. Patting the prisoner on the shoulder, murmuring a "Go easy on him" to Daryl as he walked past and out of the room. And those eyes – pale, hopeful, searching eyes – were still on him, making him fight the urge to shrink into some nearby shadow.

He was almost grateful when Glenn ducked back into the room less than a minute later, throwing a hand up to ward off any questions and hissing, "Herd, making its way around the lake on the north side. We're gonna move out, leave the cars for now and loop around south."

"Leave the cars?" Hershel was rising to his feet, looking nervous. And he had a right to; not only were the cars their only chance at a quick getaway, they also had all the group's supplies: clothes, extra ammo, whatever scraps of food they'd managed to store up. "What if they settle in?"

Glenn shrugged, bouncing anxiously on the balls of his feet and squinting through the window, even though it faced the wrong way to see the approaching herd.

"No reason to, right? They've been walking; should keep right on walking unless they find something interesting, like the smell of exhaust or the sound of the cars starting up. Rick wants to try letting them pass and looping around behind them; this is a good spot, don't want to lose it before we have to. But we've gotta move _now_, before they see us."

Daryl didn't like it, not working on hunches and definitely not working on hope. But it _was_ rare to find a place like this – roof and bed and bordered on one side, quiet and away from the towns. They'd been running without a home base for so long he'd stopped keeping track and everyone – especially Lori, now that the baby was starting to show – needed at least a few days to rest. Anyway, Rick had made the call. No point arguing.

"Alright… Glenn, go cover the women, make sure they ain't trying to pack half the house, take it along." He could just see Carol and Lori huddled over that kitchen table trying to fit the half-mended shirts back into their bags for the trip. "Doc…"

"I'll check on the kids," he cut in, grabbing his shotgun from the corner beside his chair. "Though I'm sure Carl already has the situation in hand."

Daryl nodded, sliding his knife from his hip and moving toward the bed as the others headed out. The prisoner was watching him tensely, eyes twitching across the blade, across Daryl's fingers gripping it. A hint of a tired smile quirked his lips.

"Are you planning on freeing me or stabbing me, _Daryl_?"

The use of his name was sharp, pointed, like a jibe he couldn't catch the sting of. And for just a second, Daryl let himself consider it. If it would be kinder to all of them to just cut the loose cannon free before it sank the whole damn ship.

But when the blade came down, it cut tape and not flesh.

"You heard Glenn; we don't want Walkers sniffing anything tasty in here. That includes crazy Irishmen."

He cut the second wrist free and stepped back as the man sat up slowly, tugging the tape from his skin and not breaking Daryl's gaze.

"Well, fortunate for me that those demons came by then. You've looked ready to put one between my eyes since I woke up."

So, the man _had_ noticed. Good to know. He seemed lucid enough right now, but experience showed that could change in an instant.

"Strange, you wanting me to stick around then."

"Well, what's an interrogation without a trigger-happy redneck to liven things up, aye?"

He pushed himself to his feet, wobbling enough to make Daryl worry he'd have to carry the guy to safety… again. But after a few seconds he steadied himself, the color returning slowly to his ash-pale face, and took a step forward and flashed a grin as if nothing had happened.

"Don't suppose I get a gun."

Daryl holstered his own and went to retrieve his crossbow, slinging it over his shoulder.

"You can get mine when a Walker bites my arm off, how's that?"

The man spotted his bloodied peacoat handing over the rail at the foot of the bed and lifted it up, grimacing at the crusted spatters before sliding it back over his shoulders.

"Had a gun the first time we danced; I didn't draw it. You didn't even notice."

"You were too delusional to remember you had it." Daryl scanned the room: clear of anything significant, anything they'd need on their (hopefully) short run. He flicked out the camp lantern and started moving toward the door.

"I remembered it well enough to blast that demon aiming for your throat back to hell."

"Then consider this a return on the favor. All you gotta do is keep your feet; I'll watch your back. Call it a vacation."

"I'm flattered."

Daryl made sure to keep half a pace behind the Irishman as they moved up the hall, noting the way his hand stayed up, fingers splayed and drifting against the wall. His expression was fixed into a sort of fierce grin that didn't fit his wobbly pace or the situation, and Daryl saw the teeth grit, expression fixing itself more solidly into place as they stepped out into the main room. Like he didn't want to let on how bad he was feeling. If it did come down to a fight tonight, Daryl had more than one reason to be glad that this guy wouldn't be armed for it.

The table had been cleared of their clothes, the candle snuffed and out of sight. All hidden away in some cabinet, most like, to mask any lingering scent of the living coming off them. Carol was the last one inside, hovering in the doorway and holding her pistol against her chest, more like a shield than a weapon. The second she caught Daryl's gaze she gave a nod and ducked outside to join the rest.

"Alright, quick and quiet," Daryl snapped, barely above a whisper. The prisoner didn't respond, teeth still grit and expression pointedly cheerful, but he did step up his pace as they followed Carol to the doorway.

It was dark outside, the fire out and buried with enough dirt that no heat should draw the Walkers' attention unless they stepped right over it. But there was nothing to be done about the lingering scent of stew – the smell of cooked squirrel hanging in the open air like a dinner bell.

The swollen moon was half-covered by clouds, but there was still enough light to make out the others skirting through the trees to the south of the cabin. Hopefully the Walkers were having more trouble in the dark. They seemed driven by sound and smell more than sight, but any hint of movement might change their course around the lake, or catch their attention enough to get them to stop walking altogether and settle in. Who knew what went on inside the geeks' heads, what made them spend weeks stumbling around and then just stop at an empty house, store or church and decide to stay put. Leaving the cars, the supplies… it was a big risk for a little reward. And with the smell of squirrel-meat hanging around the cabin and the cars, it suddenly seemed like a bigger risk than any of them should be taking.

Rick was hanging back by the first of the trees as the others pushed forward, and gave Daryl a sharp motion – _get a move on_ – when the hunter looked his way. But just leaving, just hoping for the best, wasn't good enough anymore. Instead, Daryl took a few steps the other way, toward the north end of the cabin, and caught sight of the herd. It still a good ways off, maybe a hundred yards along the treeless expanse beside the lake's edge, and moving at a casual shamble that suggested they hadn't seen or smelled anything to get them riled. But their path was leading them straight past the side of the cabin – there was no chance they wouldn't catch the scent in the air.

"Hell…"

"What is it?"

He'd almost forgotten about the prisoner, hovering a few feet away from him and following his gaze toward the oncoming herd. Instead of answering, Daryl turned his attention back to Rick and inclined a hand toward the Walkers, then himself and swept it out toward the east. He could barely make out the sheriff's shadowed features, but the stiffening of his shoulders was enough to let Daryl know the message was received. Rick shook his head, inclining again toward where the others had vanished to the south.

It wasn't any good, though. Rick had his job – to stick with the others, to lead them and make the calls and make sure they stayed safe… and it was Daryl's job to tie up the loose ends. If there was any chance the herd would decide to settle here, the group would lose everything but the weapons in their hands and the clothes on their backs. The only way to make sure they didn't was to give the herd something more interesting to chase after.

Apparently Irish had managed to follow his motions as well, because he stepped in close and hissed, "You're going to play bait? What, have you got a death wish?"

Daryl shot him a scowl. Like anyone with a death wish wouldn't find a hundred easier ways to go about it these days.

"The hell's it to you? Go catch up with the rest. Rick'll watch after you as well as I would."

The man in question had started to move back in their direction, and Daryl heard his name – a sharp whisper carried across the frigid winter air. Daryl shook his head and gestured toward where the rest of the group had gone, then to Rick. The man paused again, following his motion south. Toward his group, his family… and then back. Daryl continued to loop his finger around clockwise, indicating the group's route around the lake. Then he twitched his hand toward himself and shot it out east again, and circled it counterclockwise, ending up back where he stood. He would lead the Walkers off, then turn north and lose them before ending up back at the cabin. If he started now he should have enough time to catch their interest and then lose them while staying out of any real danger.

He saw the way Rick shifted, weighing his options, and the decisive straightening of his shoulders before he gave a sharp nod. Good.

Daryl started to slip away and almost ran straight into the prisoner, who'd been hovering at an uncomfortably close range behind him.

"You still here? Get running or you're gonna get eaten. Spoil my whole diversion."

"You're seriously planning to run off on your own like some fox for the fucking hounds to chase?"

This was getting ridiculous. The guy was just like that dumb dog that used to follow Merle home from school when they were kids; no matter how many times his brother'd thrown rocks its way, it'd just kept coming back.

"Yeah, and I'm more like _not_ to get bit if I can get moving before they catch up."

The other man sighed faintly, nodded, but didn't move away.

"Fair enough. Do it if you've got to, but I'm coming with you."

Just like a goddamn puppy… and Daryl was on the verge of looking for a sharp stone.

"Like hell."

"Not safe to run off alone; you'll need backup."

"I do fine on my own."

"You needed me yesterday."

Hell with a stone, this guy could use a bullet in the knee.

"You've been half-conscious all day. Just slow me down." And the man grinned like they weren't half a football field away, now, from being eaten alive.

"Wonders of adrenaline. I could run for hours with those things at my back. How d'you think I managed as long as I did?"

Daryl grit his teeth; maybe he was being too subtle.

"I don't want you with me."

"And you'll be stopping me… how then? Shoot me, you spoil your diversion, isn't that right?"

Their quiet argument was going nowhere… unlike the Walkers, who continued to close in. Rick had already disappeared from view, and the prisoner was right; there was no way to stop him from following short of leaving him here tied up, unconscious, or dead. And none of those options would help his mission to lead the Walkers off.

"_Fine_. But I ain't dragging your ass along, so keep up and do what I say, got it?" He actually saw a gleam of triumph in the other man's eyes, like playing Walker bait was some big prize he'd won.

"Aye aye; let's see you play master planner, then. How's this going down?"

The Walkers were getting uncomfortably close, and Daryl wanted to be well north of the cabin before they were spotted; if he was lucky, have them avoid the area and the tempting scent of squirrel altogether. He whacked the prisoner's arm and started leading him forward, ducking low and keeping trees and brush between them and the approaching herd as much as possible.

"Get their attention," he muttered as they moved. "Run like hell. Keep in their sights for a bit, then lose 'em and circle back to camp."

The prisoner snorted, dodging under a low branch and wavering worryingly.

"Oh right, is that all? Fucking brilliant, some Sun Tzu level strategizing going on there."

Daryl didn't bother wondering how he'd just been insulted, glancing from the Walkers to the cabin and drawing his gun. They were far enough now. Time to catch their interest.

"Remember what I said: I ain't dragging you."

"Said I'd keep up, didn't I?"

"Then start running."

Daryl sprang up from where he'd been crouched behind a low barrier of brush, even as the prisoner reacted to his command and started dashing away from the herd. Maybe he was crashing through the fallen sticks and brambles like a rottweiler because he was playing bait, but Daryl was willing to bet he was just clumsy as hell in the wilderness. This night just kept getting better.

Wasting no time, Daryl took aim and fired a pair of shots toward the herd, the first winging a Walker's shoulder and the second hitting his neighbor square between the eyes. He lowered the gun, waiting for a heartbeat – three, five – while the Walkers shambled to a halt, refocused their attention toward the source of the sound, and began to move as quick as their rotting bodies would allow in his direction.

He ran.

His feet moved lightly across the forest floor more out of habit than anything, picking their way around the most obvious twigs and the thickest mats of browning leaves. The prisoner was ahead of him, pounding through the underbrush like a raging bull, his arms out to assist him in pushing off trunks whenever he stumbled. It took less than half a minute for Daryl to catch up, and match the other man's pace.

He shot Daryl a glance, lips shaped back into that carefree grin that his creased brow and strained eyes didn't share.

"They on us?"

"They _saw_ us." Daryl glanced over his shoulder, scanned the space between the swaying trees, then grabbed the other man's arm. "Slow up."

"Wasn't this the 'run like hell' portion of the evening?"

"Not if we lose 'em too quick." They were following, the snarls echoing through the shadowed forest told him that much, but the corpses were too decayed to keep pace with the running men – even the slow, unsteady pace that the Irishman was setting.

"Aye, 'cause staying well out of biting range, that'd be piss-poor planning, wouldn't it?"

The fastest few were becoming just visible through the night-shroud of the forest. Daryl raised his Colt to take another shot, but the prisoner caught his arm.

"No need to go wasting bullets. We're leading them off, not starting our last stand here."

"Gotta keep their attention."

"Then try using that gob of yours for something other than arguing, how's that?" The man flashed a grin as he spoke, teeth gleaming, and reached out to thump Daryl's shoulder in a way that seemed way too friendly for a guy Daryl'd just been threatening to shoot ten minutes before. Daryl's nerves continued to grate as the other man suddenly decided to take charge, stepping forward and waving his arms above his head.

"Right, this way! Come on, you Godless hellspawn, two tasty meals over here!" He looked like an idiot for all of six seconds, but the snarls increased in answer, and more Walkers spilled into view. Turning back, he raised a brow at Daryl's skeptical look. "What? Shouting equals attention, in case it's not obvious. You new to this whole 'playing bait' thing?"

.-

He wasn't sure how long they'd been running now, but Connor was about ready to lie down and leave himself to be devoured. He'd never felt this close to complete and utter shit in his life, even back in the Hoag when he'd spent most days stuck in a four-pace stretch of cement and iron and the rest getting split lips and bruised ribs from fights with every prisoner who thought he had something to prove. Fuck, even when he'd been shot and had to scald his skin back together with a clothes iron he'd gotten it together and been back in fighting form in less time than it was taking him to get over this little head bump.

And here's the sad part (if that wasn't sad enough to start with): they weren't even _really_ running. Trotting more like, maybe jogging, turning back every half a minute or so to shout, wave, rattle underbrush and all around look like tasty targets to hold the demons' attention. They'd only had to kill three so far – faster ones, less long-dead than the rest that went down with a bullet a piece – but there were still another two dozen on their tail, maybe more. Daryl had remembered the torch taped to his crossbow a few minutes ago, and had it flicked on so his back glowed like a constant beacon as they bobbed and weaved through the branches and brambles.

_Daryl._

He still couldn't get over it.

The Doc had been talking about trauma at some point – head trauma or emotional trauma... anyway, some kind of crazy, fucked up trauma that might explain this whole crazy, fucked up situation. Might explain why his brain kept pasting his brother's face onto some stranger's shoulders. Might explain why no matter how much he _understood_ that this wasn't his brother running next to him, failing to entirely hide a smirk every time Connor stumbled or caught a boot in some underbrush, he still felt the need to protect him, keep him in sight, and go with him on this potential suicide mission. Every time he met the guy's gaze he half expected the illusion to have washed away, to be staring at a complete stranger instead… while the other half was still waiting for Murphy to stop running, cuff him in the jaw and ask if he was really so daft that a dumb accent and a few scowls convinced him Murphy was someone else.

Exactly 0% of Connor was expecting the delusion to keep right on lasting… And yet, defying all sense, it did.

Finally, when Connor was right on the verge of just giving up and letting the next knot of earth carry him downward, Daryl stopped short. He turned quickly and threw out an arm – which Connor stumbled right into, nearly knocking them both to the earth anyway.

"The fuck, man? Give me a warning, alright?"

But the other man didn't spare him a glance, squinting into the trees behind them.

"Should be far enough out now," he growled after a second. "Even if they stop going straight once they lose us, no reason they'd turn and head back to camp from here."

He dropped his arm, and Connor only realized he'd been leaning on it when he stumbled at its absence. Daryl was reaching over his own shoulder, flicking off the torch, and the darkness was thick enough suddenly to suffocate Connor. He froze, blinking stupidly and trying to let his eyes adjust… but Daryl was already moving, slipping quick and quiet away from him – a thick shadow against paler darkness.

_Fuck._ Well, he'd promised to keep up and he would, even if he couldn't see where he was running to, or what might be lurking two meters in front of him. The only options now were staying with Daryl and hoping he had sense enough not to kill them both, or stay behind and get eaten. Not really much choice at all.

He stumbled after.

.-

TBC

.-

Latin translations:

Jesu, dimitte mihi – Jesus, forgive me

Ego fugi – I fled

Dereliqui… - I abandoned…


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

"I've got to say, this fucking suicide run of yours went down a lot easier than I was expecting."

The Irishman's boots crunched across patches of leaves and sticks in a careless rhythm… or what might've been a rhythm if he didn't trip up every six or so steps on roots or underbrush.

The hunter moving silently at his left cut a weary glance toward the stumbling boots. This was going easy, sure enough, but no thanks to his flat-foot companion. Woods like this at night, no way to make out more than fifteen paces ahead of you and that's if you were squinting for it. Way you survived in a den of predators in the dark, you stayed as quiet as you could and hoped you heard them before they heard you.

Irish, kicking forward a patch of dried leaves as he went, took Daryl's pointed silence as an invitation to keep talking.

"Really though. We run off through a forest playing the big damn heroes with a pack on our tail, you'd think we would end up surrounded or cut off or at least've run into a great massive cliff edge by now. All that build up, then we just get away clean? That not seem too easy for you?"

But hell, no way Daryl could just let that lie.

"They're _Walkers_. Brain-dead. They ain't setting some trap for us."

"I don't mean that; I just mean in general. You don't feel it's just about time for things to go wrong?"

Time? What, like the universe was waiting on cue?

"Hell, what kind of action movie daydream you think you're living in?"

The man, seeming a little too pleased with the question, tilted his head, considering. Daryl regretted opening his mouth. It seemed to be a developing trend around this idiot.

"Well then, let me think…" He trailed off thoughtfully, giving the question far more attention than it was due. "Not some contrived, big-budget blockbuster, I'd say. No, I see myself more as the cult classic type. Gritty, low-budget, but with integrity and just a bit of heart." He grinned again, and Daryl couldn't tell if this was another symptom of the guy's concussion or if he was actually always like this. Actually looked at the world and saw a movie waiting to happen. Maybe he was better off not knowing. He huffed faintly, shot back:

"Right. Well in real life when things go right we just call it 'lucky,' move on."

"Well, I call it suspicious."

Daryl snorted and immediately regretted it; the guy's returning laugh told him that was exactly what he'd been going for. Hell with that; he shrugged off his smirk and snapped back.

"Well, I'll keep my eye out for sudden bear attacks, sound good?" The scathing tone didn't seem to bite; the other man went right on grinning.

"Only if I get to go Anthony Hopkins on its hide." The Irishman mimed a sharp stabbing motion that made Daryl's brow arch, adding quickly: "_The Edge_. Not _Hannibal_."

"Never saw neither." And then it was Irish's turn to stare. Daryl scowled right back. "What? TV's not exactly priority when the other option's eating."

"Shit, we didn't have one either but there are some things you've got to invest a movie ticket in. You missed cinema history, friend."

"Hannibal was that guy, went around eating people?" Daryl cut an unimpressed glance toward the prisoner, who stared back for a beat before rolling eyes.

"Alright, you have a point."

Looping back wasn't the easiest thing in the darkness, moonlight less reliable than sunlight for working out direction, and passing clouds swallowing up half the stars. They didn't want to head south too soon and risk running into any stragglers from the herd if they could help it… but then if they went too far and overshot the lake they might well end up spending the whole night out in the frigid woods. The prisoner seemed happy enough to let Daryl take the lead. Hadn't made any effort to attack him and run off, or even move out of range of his carefully focused periphery. He was strangely agreeable about everything, to be honest, when the crazy wasn't coming out in full force.

Daryl didn't like it. Didn't trust what he couldn't work out, understand. Predict. This guy had latched onto him from the second they'd run into each other. Took down a Walker with his bare hands to save him, then came back ten minutes later and saved him again. Delusional, obviously. And he'd said something like…

"_And that's exactly why you don't run off starting fights on your own, baby brother."_

He'd passed out three seconds later. Hadn't even realized what he was saying, most like. He'd been delusional back in the store and delusional in the cabin, and Daryl had shrugged off the comment and the long, puzzling stares because, hell, what'd it matter to him anyway where the stranger's eyes fell?

Why think about it, why invest in it, when Rick was like to send the guy off the second he healed up? And that was the best case things could go. They didn't trust outsiders. Rick'd made that pretty clear. The ten of them, together, that's how they stayed alive. The Irishman was just Daryl's bad call passing through.

There was a sound of shuffling up ahead.

Daryl sank down into a crouch, lifting his hand up in warning before realizing that Irish was already falling down in sync with him, one hand pressing against a trunk but looking steady, alert. Daryl unslung the crossbow and aimed it toward the source of the sound, but it was harder to see now under the shroud of trees than it had been back in open grass, and all he could make out was a shifting of movement that might've been anything from a herd to some deer.

But whatever "it" was, there was a lot of it. Without the distraction of the Irishman's feet rustling beside him, Daryl could make out sounds in a wide range in front of them.

And slivers of pale movement – skin? – where the tree shadows gave way to patches of moonlight.

What had Irish said about this being too easy?

Some of the Walkers had broken off from their trail. Either that or this was another herd entirely. As he shifted forward a few crouched steps, it wasn't hard for Daryl to figure out what must've gotten their attention – a beaten up truck was just sitting there in the middle of the forest, front side squashed up like a pug's nose against the base of a tree. Someone trying to flee the collapsing civilization, most like, and ended up getting taken down by nature instead. Most of the shapes were poking around the truck, probably looking for pieces of corpse to chew on, while others moved around the perimeter in slow, sweeping motions. The closest figure was holding something in one arm as it paced, something long and dark that gleamed in the moonlight.

Irish moved to follow Daryl forward, his foot coming straight down on a stick. The sharp crack that followed made the nearest Walker turn, its arm raising and the metal lifting up quickly.

"Something's out there!"

_Damn_ _it_… not Walkers. It had taken Daryl too long to realize and now the group ahead of them was all aiming in their direction – some with the short, shining rail of a handgun, others with longer weapons, tips too narrow to be shotguns… what might've been military issue assault rifles. If even one of them had an automatic they'd be able to fire out into the brush and hit both crouching men without even seeing them.

"Probably a raccoon."

The closest man scoffed. Daryl, squinting, noted that unlike the rest, he was holding what looked like a long metal stick vertically at the middle. A bow, and his arm was unwavering. More likely to fire that than a gun; no fear of drawing the Walkers in with the sound. _Damn it._ Worse and worse.

"Bigger than a raccoon," The bowman murmured. "Close, too."

There was a short pause as the men's guns swept across the area. Daryl held his aim on the bowman and quietly hoped that Irish wouldn't move or pass out again or anything else equally stupid.

"If it was a Biter it wouldn't have stopped moving like that. It'd be coming at us like Sunday dinner."

"Other things out in the woods just as dangerous."

The group paused again. Then another let out a short, nervous laugh.

"Look, nothing's happening. Let's just finish up here and go, alright guys?"

"Already after dark, no need to rush."

The group more or less seemed to lose interest in the sound of Irish's misstep, except for the bowman. His gaze continued to move slowly in their direction, weapon sweeping steadily along with his eyes. There'd be no leaving until he turned away, not unless Daryl took a shot and they ran for it before the others knew what hit them. He shot a glance toward the Irishman, who was crouched several paces behind him. The other man had been leaning against trees as he walked, and had ended up close enough to be able to use one as cover if necessary. Daryl, on the other hand, was dangerously far out in the open, maybe five paces from the closest bit of cover. His only defense was staying low and still enough to be mistaken for brambles, but if they started shining flashlights or if the moon decided to quit playing hide-and-seek behind the clouds, he'd be in a lot of trouble and quick.

The rest of the group were shuffling around with less purpose now, one hoisting a bag while the other dropped his. A third releasing his gun altogether and stretching.

"Wanna just settle in here 'til dawn? Good a place as any. I call back seat as a bed."

"No man, I don't want to sleep out here. Let's go back."

"You stupid? It's past dark."

"Yeah, you feel like eating a bullet tonight?"

It didn't sound like a joke, the words enough to make the proposer quail and fall back toward the truck.

So they were brutal, then. Violent types. Willing to kill each other over petty arguments… and they were planning on settling in. Weren't likely to be fair to passing strangers. Hell… looked like Daryl didn't have much chance but to shoot the bowman and risk a run. He glanced at Irish again, right hand moving slowly from his bow out toward his target, and then inclined his head back west, the way they'd come. That track would lead them away from the cabin, back toward the Walkers, but it was better than chancing this group chasing them down and running into Daryl's people. The prisoner held his gaze for just long enough to get Daryl wondering if he'd understood at all, before a slow smile touched his lips. And he stood.

The bowman's aim found him instantly.

"Hey everyone, white flag here!" Irish raised his hands, unthreatening, stepping out of the shadow of his tree and taking a few steps forward, still tripping over his own feet as he went. At first Daryl winced at the clumsy steps (the man looked ready to faint any second. And surrendering… so much for being past delusional) until he realized the awkward, slanted gait was carrying him away from Daryl, taking the eyes of the other group along with him. As their gazes followed him, slowly circling right, Daryl allowed himself to fall backward, still crouched, toward the shadow of the nearest trees on the left.

"No need for trouble," Irish was saying, loud and slow. "Just walking through the woods and heard you fine fellows moving about. No need for bullets or arrows or any of that, right now?"

The other group – eight of them, Daryl could finally make out – all had weapons fixed on him now.

"We're all decent people here," Irish continued lightly. "No need for anyone to get hurt."

A tall, heavily built man stalked forward to stand next to the bowman. His stance didn't suggest much in the way of "decent people."

"Where the hell'd you come from? How many you got with you?"

Irish didn't even pause.

"I'm here on my own. Just passing through, like I said. I admit I hid when I heard your voices – too easy to get mistaken for a demon in the darkness and wind up with a hole blown through you these days. Makes us all a mite skittish. But if you'll let me just make my way past, we can both avoid getting—"

"Drop whatever weapons you have and come over here."

A man spoke up from the back, by the van: "Think we should bring him back with us?"

Another laughed faintly.

"Why bother? Let's just shoot him and be done, Shump."

Daryl had managed to slip around the nearest tree and was slowly circling the group at a crouch. He was outside their line of vision now, could get away and them be none the wiser.

"I'm unarmed." Irish was still making his way forward, slowly.

And who knew, maybe he wanted Daryl to leave him with these guys. Wasn't like one group or another should make much difference to him. And if Rick kicked him out – and seemed like Rick _would_ be kicking him out – maybe it was better to leave him with other people instead of on his own with the Walkers.

Make Daryl's life a hell of a lot easier, too, if they parted ways now.

He steadied his aim, and didn't move.

The big guy was rolling his free shoulder; his shadowed face could be nothing but a sneer behind the shroud of night-blackness.

"No one walks around unarmed these days. Expect us to believe you don't have a gun, a knife, anything?"

"What can I say?" Irish had nearly reached the group. "I'm a pacifist."

Afterward, Daryl wouldn't be able to explain what made him choose that moment to pull the trigger. Maybe he'd noticed the way that man in the back was steadying his gun, not relaxing it. Maybe Irish had already twitched and started to swing… Or maybe Daryl'd somehow gotten caught up in the idiot's movie mindset, because that 'pacifist' line had been straight out of a bad action flick. Whatever the reason, Daryl's bolt hit the bowman in the shoulder the same instant Connor's fist cracked the larger man's jaw. Twisting the gun out of the man's hand, Connor swung it back and whipped the butt across his temple.

Daryl had swung his crossbow over his shoulder in favor of his revolver, the gunshots cutting across the cold night like a line of transformers going off one after another. Two men practically fell over themselves scrambling toward cover; a third took a bullet and hit the earth, unmoving. Connor was still standing in the middle of the fray, unheeding of any danger as he took precise aim and fired from one target to the next. He was getting lucky so far, but this wasn't the time to test out the other group's targeting skills.

Daryl scowled as his Colt ran out of ammo, and pulled out a Beretta he'd taken off Irish the day before. These bullets escaped in soft pops that made his ears feel like they'd been stuffed with cotton, courtesy of the professional grade silencer at the end of the barrel. Off-putting at first, the quiet shots quickly became comfortable – more in tune with the predatory kills his crossbow offered than the usual blare of a handgun going off.

And Irish was still standing in the heart of the firefight, clipping off shots like a cowboy.

"Hey, Steve McQueen, this ain't the OK Corral over here. _Move_!"

The man jerked a nod of assent but didn't back off right away, ducking down over the bowman and grabbing something from beside his prone body. Their last two enemies continued to fire from behind the safety of the half-crushed truck, but couldn't seem to decide between shooting at Daryl or Connor and came up near neither.

Connor was moving back again, toward Daryl, his stolen gun still firing at patient intervals, one shot yielding a scream from behind the truck and another shattering glass that rained down right on their enemies' heads. He fell in line with Daryl, standing shoulder to shoulder without so much as a glance his way.

"Alright, Master Planner. What've you got for us now?"

"I'm thinking move. Right. _Now._"

Daryl strafed east and felt the other man move with him, matching his pace as they cut away from the group, back toward the herd of Walkers and, most importantly, away from the cabin. No shots followed in their wake, which meant that either the remaining man had run out of bullets or the shattering glass had done more damage than they could've hoped. Connor barked out a loud laugh as they went.

"Right, _that_ was more like it! And you weren't half bad back there, Van Helsing."

He clapped Daryl's shoulder, but Daryl gritted his teeth. The woods seemed quiet enough ahead, but the Walkers were still up there somewhere. Probably turned around and heading their way from the sound of the gunshots. They weren't out of trouble yet unless they stayed focused, played this smart.

From his left, Connor spoke up.

"Oh, and Bronson by the way."

Daryl's gaze flicked from the path ahead to Connor, and back.

"What?"

"Charlie Bronson, not McQueen. Better with the shootouts."

Daryl wasn't sure whether to smack the idiot or just ignore him. His lips started to twitch incredulously, and he stalled it with a scowl.

"Shut up, keep moving. And keep your eyes peeled."

The man laughed again, more softly, but complied. As soon as they were out of the truck's sightline Daryl altered their course, moving south and, gradually, back west in the direction of the lake. If he hadn't totally lost track of things, they'd been maybe two miles northeast of the cabin when they'd had their shootout. But that was a rough guess, and it was even rougher trying to pick out "southeast" with only an increasingly shadowed sky to guide them. Nearly out of ammo, Walkers and men on their tail, and the night so cold they'd freeze if they decided to stand still.

Next time Irish wanted an adventure, he could damn well keep it to himself.

.-

TBC

.-

A/N: Oh, bonding. And random movie references. And a gunfight with some very interesting strangers… This was a fun and important chapter to write, but I do hope the boys' chat didn't come off as random rambling. Anyway, happy _Walking Dead_ night to all, and leave a review if you enjoyed it! (Or hated it. I need to hear that kind of stuff too.)


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